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FOUND MONEY 














































































































































































































































































































































































































































































FOUND MONEY 


// 




,U 


jJ 


GEORGE A. 


By 

BIRMINGHAM 



Author of 

Spanish Gold, The Great Grandmother, Etc. 


cat 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright, 1923 

By The Bobbs-Merrill Company 


4 


fr? 


Printed in the United States of America 


PRESS OF 

BRAUNWORTH fit CO. 
BOOK MANUFACTURERS 
BROOKLYN. N. Y. 


AUG 29 '23 

©C1A752706 

^ J 


FOUND MONEY 




FOUND MONEY 


CHAPTER I 



'HE squall struck the boat and heeled her over, 


A gunwale down to the rushing green water. There 
was force and weight behind them and spray hissed 
viciously. A great bank of cloud was piling up, black 
and threatening, to the westward. The evening dark¬ 
ened rapidly in spite of the splendor of a stormy sun¬ 
set. I am a summer sailor, no lover of winter seas 
and winter cold. I knew by a dozen signs that my 
boating was over for that year. 

I beached the boat on the strand, under the shelter 
of the headland which protects St. Jacut Bay. Pierre, 
madame’s fat husband, was there to meet me, and he 
helped me to haul the boat far up beyond all possibility 
of danger from the highest tide. We stored the sails 
and oars in a bathing-box, disused for several weeks, 
which stood in a sheltered nook. Fat Pierre agreed 
with me that the summer was over and my sailing 


9 


10 


FOUND MONEY 


done. He peered up at the sky out of his little eyes 
and told me that it was going to be a nasty night, the 
first of the many which make winter in St. Jacut a 
dreary time. 

I walked back to the village by the path along the 
dunes, and the rising wind blew little showers of 
prickly sand against my face. There was rain coming, 
and plenty of it. I was depressed and ill-pleased with 
myself. The summer was over, and I had idled away 
the splendid three months when I should have been 
working. Day after day had slipped by. There was 
sailing. There was swimming. There were adventur¬ 
ous explorations of the wonderful Breton coast. Not 
one line had I written. Not one chapter of the novel 
I had planned was even sketched out. And the first 
large drops of rain struck me—the summer was over. 

I reached the door of the little Hotel de la Mer, 
uncomfortably aware that no warm welcome awaited 
me. Madame, proprietress and manager, was anxious 
to be rid of me, and had been making her feeling quite 
evident for more than a week. She is a Frenchwoman 
of orderly mind. She runs her hotel for summer visi¬ 
tors, cooks for them, chatters to them, smiles at them, 
and is altogether agreeable. In winter, according to 
madame’s view of life, visitors ought to go to their 


FOUND MONEY 


ii 


homes. Then she can shut up the greater part of her 
house and devote herself to the business of a farmer's 
wife till summer comes again. While I stayed on, 
madame could not settle down for the winter. I occu¬ 
pied a corner in the salle a manger , a solitary guest for 
whom it was still necessary to cook, to whom Fanni 
and Felicite, two sturdy Breton girls, must render ser¬ 
vice when they should be out in the fields gathering in 
the apples or helping the men with cider making. 
There was neither sense nor profit in such an arrange¬ 
ment. Madame meant me to go, and I knew well 
enough that I must. Not for me any more than for 
her was there sense or profit in my lingering on. 

Madame met me in the narrow passage outside the 
door of the dining-room and handed me a letter. The 
envelope bore neither stamp nor postmark. It was 
addressed “To the English Gentleman in St. Jacut.” 
Six weeks earlier there might have been a dozen claim¬ 
ants for it. That evening, no doubt, madame was 
right in handing it to me. I was the only Englishman, 
gentle or simple, in the whole village. 

The letter had been left, so madame told me, early 
in the afternoon, by a jeune fille Anglaise. I knew no 
young English girl in the whole of Brittany. So far 
as I knew there was not one within ten miles of St. 


12 


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Jacut. The last of the species, a lean creature who 
spent most of the summer in her bathing-dress, had 
left three weeks before with her mother. 

But madame was positive that the bearer of the 
letter was Anglaise. She could not be mistaken on 
such a point. Une Anglaise, petite, mince, brune, 
apparently gaie, and une peu causeuse; but since she 
spoke little French, madame could only guess at her 
gaiety and garrulity. But no. Madame did not know 
her name. She had not asked it. English names are 
very difficult. Even if she had heard it she would 
certainly have forgotten it. She wore—madame was 
clear and accurate on these points—a blue dress and a 
blue hat, both unmistakably English, stockings of the 
thickest, and shoes—madame threw up her hands over 
the shoes, and I gathered that English was too mild a 
word for them. 

There was a great deal more of the description, but 
it did not help me at all. I turned the letter over in 
my hand, doubtful whether I should open it. I did 
not want to pry into the correspondence, perhaps the 
love-letters, of any jeune fille even if she were English 
and wore low-heeled shoes with thick soles. Madame 
kept assuring me that the letter was certainly meant 
for me. Was I not the only Englishman left in St. 


FOUND MONEY 


i3 


Jacut? For whom else could it be intended? I think 
she hoped it might hasten my departure from her 
hotel, and that she would be free at last to settle down 
for the winter. By way of overcoming my unwilling¬ 
ness to open the letter she assured me that mademoi¬ 
selle was very gentille, altogether charmante, and had 
the manner very chic. 

At last I did open the letter. It was signed Quar- 
tus Wilbred and dated from the Chateau d’Aix. The 
writer was ill. He had some business to transact, im¬ 
portant business. He was totally unable to make him¬ 
self understood in French, or to understand what 
French people said to him. Fie had heard through his 
daughter, who did speak a little French, that there was 
an Englishman in St. Jacut. Would I go to his assist¬ 
ance ? Then followed apologies. If he had been able 
to come to me he would have done so. His business 
was of a very pressing kind, and so forth. 

I put the letter into my pocket, and asked madame 
to tell me where the Chateau d’Aix was. She told me 
that it was some five miles inland from St. Jacut. She 
also told me a great deal more, for she herself is more 
than a little causeuse. The chateau is a great house. 
It was once magnifique. But of late years it had been 
uninhabited and very ill taken care of. It became 


14 


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dilapidated and triste, triste as death. Madame was 
eloquent about its loneliness and sadness. She was 
amazed to hear that it was inhabited, and even more 
amazed that the tenant should be an Englishman. 
Englishmen, so madame believes, and believes on good 
evidence, will only live in houses with bathrooms and 
will not live anywhere more than a mile from a golf 
links. In the Chateau d’Aix there is certainly no bath¬ 
room, and the nearest golf links must be fourteen or 
fifteen miles away. 

But would monsieur have his dinner at once? 

Monsieur would and did, a thoroughly excellent 
dinner. Madame knows how to cook and does not 
starve her guests, even when she wants to get rid of 
them. The storm gathered force while I was eating 
my omelette and the rain lashed furiously against the 
long windows of the room. I hoped that Mr. Wil- 
bred’s business was not of an urgent kind. I was quite 
prepared to go to him next day, to witness his sig¬ 
nature, to explain to him the terms of a French lease 
or to do whatever it was he wanted done. I had no 
intention of facing a long walk that night through the 
driving rain. 

I was too quick in making up my mind about that. 
Mr. Wilbred’s business was of the most urgent pos- 


FOUND MONEY 15 

sible kind. I found that out while I was drinking my 
coffee and smoking my first cigarette. 

Madame, in a high state of excitement, led an old 
peasant woman into the dining-room. Fanni and 
Felicite, both greatly agitated, followed. Madame’s 
husband, fat Pierre, whom we seldom saw indoors, 
came too. The old woman was soaked to the skin. 
The water trickled out of her skirts on to the floor. 
Her Breton coif was a mere wisp of wet muslin on 
her head. The whole party, except fat Pierre, who 
seldom speaks, began to talk at once, very fast and 
volubly. I gathered that the old woman was servant 
to monsieur and mademoiselle at the Chateau d’Aix. 
She had walked all the way to St. Jacut through the 
storm to tell me that Monsieur—she, madame, Fanni 
and Felicite made four separate attempts to say Wil- 
bred, and all failed to get anywhere near it—Monsieur 
was dying, without doubt, that very night, and most 
earnestly desired to see another Englishman to whom 
he could speak. 

I could not refuse to go. Wilbred evidently 
needed my help badly. If a feeble old woman could 
face the storm on an errand of mercy for a foreigner 
it would ill befit me, a strong young man, to fail my 
fellow countryman who was dying in a strange land. 


16 


FOUND MONEY 


Madame, who was deeply thrilled, turned to her 
husband and ordered him to put his horse into the trap 
and drive me to the Chateau d’Aix. Pierre did not 
like the job, but he did not refuse to do it. He sent 
Fanni and Felicite to harness the horse while he 
wrapped himself in every garment he could find. 

It was a dismal journey through a villainously dark 
night over vile roads. The rain beat through our 
clothes and coursed down our necks and sleeves. In 
spite of an oilskin coat, I was soaked before I got to 
the chateau. The old woman took fat Pierre off to 
some outhouse and helped him to stable the horse. I 
was left to make my own way through the kitchen to 
the sitting-room. There I found Wilbred’s daughter, 
the girl who had brought the letter to me. I made no 
attempt then to decide for myself how far madame's 
description of her was accurate. She may have been 
mince and gentille and all the rest of it. She was cer¬ 
tainly young. I should have guessed her age as seven¬ 
teen or eighteen years. She seemed singularly little 
affected by her father's state. She was neither tearful 
nor frightened, and she led me to his room very much 
as she might have shown me to a drawing-room where 
afternoon tea was waiting for me. 

I did not at all like the look of Wilbred. He was 


FOUND MONEY 


1 7 


haggard, and had evidently not attempted to shave for 
about a week. That I expected, for the man was dy¬ 
ing, or at all events very ill. What I did not like were 
the plain signs that he had been drinking heavily for 
some time. There was a pile of empty brandy bottles 
in the corner of the room, and the man’s face and 
hands suggested a bad debauch. It might very well 
have been the brandy that was killing him. But he 
was not drunk when I saw him and he seemed to be in 
full possession of his senses. He was at all events quite 
sensible enough to know that he was dying. Besides 
the unmistakable signs of heavy drinking about him, 
he looked to me a shifty and untrustworthy man. He 
gave me the impression of being one of those unfort¬ 
unate people who never succeed in running straight in 
life. 

I sat down beside him. His daughter stood quietly 
at the end of the bed. Very soon he began to speak. 

“I’m dying,” he said. “The doctor made that clear 
to me this afternoon, quite clear, though he couldn’t 
talk English and I don’t understand French. Any¬ 
how, I should have known it without his telling me. 
I’m dying, so I’ve got to trust you—got to, because 
there’s nobody else who can understand a word I say. 
It’s damned hard.” 


i8 


FOUND MONEY 


He repeated “damned hard” several times, and 
then drifted off into a meaningless repetition of the 
word damned. “Oh, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn,” 
spoken very rapidly in a patter. It was an extremely 
feeble piece of swearing, petulant and unimaginative. 
I was sick of the sound of the word “damn” before he 
stopped. 

“There’s money,” he said at last. “Money for her, 
for my daughter. I meant to have it myself and en¬ 
joy it. I meant to have a good time. I deserved a 
good time. If ever a man deserved a good time I did. 
And now I can’t have it. Oh, damn, damn, damn—” 

This time I stopped him. 

“If you want your daughter to have your money,” 
I said, “you’d better make your will. I’ll do it for you 
to-night as well as I can, and to-morrow I’ll go over 
to Dinard and get a lawyer or a consul or somebody 
to fix it up properly.” 

“No, no,” he said. “I don’t want lawyers. Damn 
all lawyers—or consuls—and I don’t want to make a 
will. No will is needed. A will wouldn’t be the slight¬ 
est use. You might lose the money if there was a will. 
It’s not invested or in a bank. It’s—” 

He stretched out his hand and pulled me over to 
him till my face was quite close to his. 


FOUND MONEY 


19 

"It's buried,” he whispered. “Twenty thousand 
golden sovereigns, buried safe.” 

I thought I had been mistaken in my first impres¬ 
sion, and that the man was delirious and raving wildly. 
No man nowadays could get a hundred golden sover¬ 
eigns however badly he wanted them. As for twenty 
thousand—besides, no one would bury such a sum of 
money. 

I tried to talk sense to him. I told him that even 
if he did not make a will his daughter would get his 
money: the whole of it if she was his only child, her 
proper share if she had brothers and sisters. I assured 
him that he might make his mind quite easy. 

I merely succeeded in irritating him. He went on 
asserting that his money was buried, that nobody knew 
where it was, that nobody even knew of its existence. 
He said that unless I would undertake the job of dig¬ 
ging it up, neither his daughter nor any one else would 
ever get a penny of it. All the wills in the world, wit¬ 
nessed, executed, proved, would never secure his 
money. The only way to get it was to follow his in¬ 
structions and dig it up. That is what he wanted me 
to do. Would I do it? Then he became insulting. 

“I don’t suppose you’re honest,” he said. “No 
man is honest enough to be trusted with the handling 


20 


FOUND MONEY 


of twenty thousand pounds. You’ll take your rake-off 
while you handle it. I dare say you’ll take half. I 
don’t see what’s to stop you taking more than half. 
But you’ll surely give her some of it. Anyhow, I’ve 
got to trust you. If I don’t trust you Genevieve will 
not get a penny.” 

So Genevieve was the girl’s name. It was the first 
time I had heard it. 

“I won’t tell you exactly where it is,” he said. “I’ll 
tell Genevieve and no one else. Then she’ll have a 
hold over you.” He spoke to his daughter. “But 
don’t trust him, Genevieve. Don’t trust any one.” 

I was annoyed with the man, particularly annoyed 
because he was trying to induce his daughter to regard 
me as a thief. 

“You needn’t worry about what precautions you’re 
going to take,” I said. “I’m not going to have any¬ 
thing to do with the money or to mix myself up in 
your affairs at all.” 

The wretched man broke down and cried when I 
said that. After crying for a while he began to swear 
again, if his monotonous repetition of “Oh, damn, 
damn” could be called swearing. His daughter did 
not make the smallest attempt to quiet him or to com¬ 
fort him. After watching him for a while she shrugged 


FOUND MONEY 


21 


her shoulders slightly and left the room. I gathered 
that she was used to scenes of the kind, perhaps to 
worse scenes. The man was at all events sober when 
I saw him. He might be a great deal more offensive 
when he was drunk. And I felt sure that he had been 
drunk very often lately. 

After the girl left the room he stopped swearing 
and made a half-hearted apology to me. 

“I’m not accusing you of being dishonest,” he said. 
“I dare say you’re no worse than everybody else. But 
if you’d been where I’ve been the last ten years you’d 
have precious little faith in anybody’s honesty.” 

“Anyhow,” I said, “it doesn’t in the least matter 
what you think or believe about me. I’m not going to 
have anything to do with this buried money of yours. 
I’m going home at once.” 

“You won’t do that,” he said. “You can’t be so 
devilish as to walk off and leave me helpless in a place 
where nobody understands a word I say. You must 
help me. Genevieve will never be able to get that 
money for herself. She’s only a child. She can't do 
it. Look here. I’ll agree to your taking ten per cent. 
—I’ll agree to your taking twenty per cent, if you like. 
But don’t go away and leave me.” 

That offer seemed to me nearly as insulting as his 


22 


FOUND MONEY 


suspicion of my honesty. Besides, I did not believe in 
his buried money. I thought he was suffering from 
some delusion, the sort of hallucination which comes 
on men who have poisoned themselves with alcohol. 
Nor did I think he was dying at once. He looked hag¬ 
gard and desperately ill. But his voice was strong, 
and he seemed able to move in his bed quite well. I 
thought it likely that he would live for a week. 

I rose and held out my hand to him. He took it, 
held it in his, fondled it, wept over it, even kissed it. 

“For God’s sake don’t desert me,” he said. “I 
want to settle about that money. I can die happy if 
only you’ll promise to do as I ask you. A girl is help¬ 
less in a matter like this. Unless she has a man to help 
her she’ll never get the money.” 

For the first time I felt a little sorry for the man. 
There was an earnestness in the appeal he made and a 
look of despair in his shifty eyes which moved me. 

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you,” I said. “I’ll 
drive over to Dinard to-morrow and get somebody to 
come here and help you. You don’t like lawyers. Any¬ 
way, I dare say there’s no English lawyer there. But 
I’ll get you a clergyman. I know there’s a clergyman 
in Dinard. Or if you like I’ll get you a colonel or a 
general. That place is full of retired military men.” 


FOUND MONEY 


23 

Wilbred managed to raise himself a little on one 
elbow. He glared at me. 

“Don’t dare to publish what I’ve told you,” he said. 
“I’ve spoken to you in confidence, and I won’t have 
you repeating what I’ve said. If people get to know 
about that twenty thousand pounds—if anybody gets 
to know— Oh, damn, damn, damn. . . 

He was at that monotonous chant of his again, and 
I could stand no more of it. I left the room. 

I found Genevieve Wilbred in the sitting-room, 
sewing by the light of an inefficient lamp. 

“I am sorry,” she said, “that he spoke to you the 
way he did. I don’t wonder you won’t stay. You’re 
perfectly right to go away. If I’d known he’d be like 
that I wouldn’t have asked you to come here at all.” 

Then she went and found fat Pierre for me. She 
came out with us to the shed where the horse was 
stabled and helped us to harness him again. 

I felt that she was rather a heartless young woman. 
Wilbred was a drunken scoundrel of the most objec¬ 
tionable kind, but he was her father. I thought she 
should at least have pretended to be a little sorry for 
him. 


CHAPTER II 


1 WAS wrong, so it turned out, in my guess about 
Wilbred’s condition. He died that night. The 
news was brought to me next morning by the old 
Breton servant from the chateau. She begged me to 
go there at once to the assistance of mademoiselle, who 
was desolee. From what I had seen of Genevieve 
Wilbred the night before, I did not think she was 
likely to be desolated to any very serious extent. But 
she was a young girl and was placed in a difficult 
position. I could not well refuse to go to her. I 
walked over to the chateau. But I was quite deter¬ 
mined not to mix myself up in her business affairs or 
to have anything whatever to do with her twenty 
thousand pounds, supposing that there was such a sum, 
which I very much doubted. I thought that I might 
send telegrams to her relatives announcing Wilbred's 
death. I would, if necessary, make the arrangements 
for his funeral. Beyond that I did not mean to go. 

I found the girl excited and a little frightened. 
Her father's death had been a shock to her. I do not 
think she expected it any more than I did, and death 
24 


FOUND MONEY 


25 


is always a terrifying thing to the young. But she was 
evidently not in the least sorry. She made no pre¬ 
tense whatever at mourning, and after I had talked to 
her for a few minutes she explained her feeling to me 
quite frankly. 

“There’s no use my pretending to be sorry about 
father,” she said. “For one thing I have only known 
him for about six weeks, and besides he never was—” 

She was frank enough, but she hesitated about 
describing what her father had been. I gave her the 
phrase I thought she wanted. 

“Particularly nice to you?” 

“He was beastly,” she said. 

I could believe it. That pile of empty brandy bot¬ 
tles in Wilbred’s room helped me to guess just how 
beastly the man must have seemed to a young girl. 

“And anyhow,” she went on, “I never knew him 
until just lately. My mother died when I was a baby, 
and I’ve always lived with Aunt Josephine. At first 
father used to come to see me sometimes, but for the 
last ten years he never came near us, not once, until 
six weeks ago. Then he came and took me away, 
and I came over here with him.” 

My way seemed plain before me. Aunt Josephine 
was the person to take charge of the girl. 


26 


FOUND MONEY 


“The first thing to do,” I said, “is to telegraph to 
your aunt. Will you tell me what her name is? I 
mean her other name besides Josephine, and where she 
lives ?” 

I was startled by the answer I got to that request. 

“I won’t have Aunt Josephine here,” said Gene¬ 
vieve. “I won’t have anything whatever to do with 
her. She’s perfectly horrid and always was. Father 
was bad enough, but Aunt Josephine—” 

Genevieve’s relatives were evidently a disagree¬ 
able lot. I supposed that Aunt Josephine must be 
given to alcohol like her brother, and a woman with 
that vice is always worse than a man. It turned out 
afterward that Aunt Josephine was a strictly sober 
and highly moral lady, objectionable for quite other 
reasons, but I did not know that at the time. If I had 
I think I should have tried to insist on getting her 
name and address from Genevieve. I did make a half¬ 
hearted attempt to get them. But Genevieve clenched 
her hands, stamped her foot, and pouted like a naughty 
child. 

She was indeed little more than a child, but she 
was a little more; just so much more as to make it 
very awkward for me to take entire charge of her. I 
am still quite a young man. 


FOUND MONEY 


27 


“Very well,” I said, “if you don’t like your Aunt 
Josephine, tell me the name of some one else to tele¬ 
graph to. Have you any sisters or brothers?” 

“No,” she said. 

“Then give me the name of your favorite uncle or 
aunt,” I said. 

“I haven’t got any uncles that I ever heard of,” 
said Genevieve, “or any aunts except Aunt Josephine.” 

“Then, my dear Genevieve—” 

I rather liked the way I said that. My use of her 
Christian name with “dear” in front of it was fatherly, 
or if not fatherly—I remembered poor Wilbred—was 
in the manner of an elderly male relative, a great-uncle 
perhaps, or a grandfather. I admired the phrase and 
my way of saying it so much that I repeated it. 

“In that case, my dear Genevieve,” I said, “I must 
telegraph to your Aunt Josephine whether you like her 
or not.” 

No one ever spoke with a finer mingling of firm¬ 
ness and kindness. I achieved such a tone of benevo¬ 
lent dignity that I felt myself many years older than I 
really was. But never were firmness and kindness so 
wasted. Never did dignity collapse more abruptly 
and completely. Genevieve looked at me sidewise. 
There was a mischiveous twinkle in her eyes. She 


28 


FOUND MONEY 


was something more, most alarming more, than a 
naughty child. She was not trying to flirt with me. I 
acquit her of any intention of using her eyes in that 
way. She was trying—I do not know what she was 
trying to do. What she succeeded in doing was mak¬ 
ing me feel like a schoolboy and that she and I were 
out for a lark together. 

“I don’t quite see how you mean to telegraph for 
Aunt Josephine,” she said, “when you don’t know her 
name or address.” 

I made one more effort to assert myself. 

“But you’re going to be a good girl and give them 
to me,” I said. 

I suppose I had no right to take that tone with her. 
I am barely twenty-seven years old, not nearly old 
enough for the heavy father part. And Genevieve was 
so far grown-up that her hair no longer hung down 
her back, and her skirts, if not long, were no shorter 
than those of most other young women. 

Genevieve was not the least impressed. 

“I won’t,” she said. 

Then she pursed up her lips and nodded her head 
at me in a way which I ought perhaps to call impu¬ 
dent, which was certainly most attractive. I do not 
know what a young man of high principle, afflicted 


FOUND MONEY 


29 


with shyness, ought to do when a lonely and unpro¬ 
tected girl sits nodding her head and smiling at him. 
Perhaps I ought to have got up and gone away. Per¬ 
haps I ought to have tried being very severe with her, 
if possible reducing her to tears. Perhaps I ought to 
have sent for the old Breton servant to chaperon, not 
Genevieve but me. What I actually did was to sit 
and look at her helplessly with my mouth open. 

Genevieve stopped looking like a mocking imp and 
made an appeal to me. 

“You're going to help me, aren't you?" she said. 

“I want to help you in every way I can; but if 
you won't give me your Aunt Josephine's address I 
can't do anything. What is there for me to do ?" 

“You can help me to get that money," she said. 

But then, in broad daylight, I felt less inclined than 
ever to believe in Wilbred’s treasure of buried sov¬ 
ereigns. The existence of such a sum, hidden in a 
hole in the ground, was obviously absurd. I explained 
carefully to Genevieve the uses that can be made of 
money. I told her about high rates of interest earned 
by those who have capital to invest; about deposits in 
banks; about savings certificates. I explained to her 
that nobody, unless he were actually insane, would 
bury twenty thousand pounds, when it might be earn- 


30 


FOUND MONEY 


ing a thousand a year for him without the smallest 
exertion on his part. 

I do not know how much of what I said she under¬ 
stood. She certainly seemed quite unimpressed and 
allowed me to talk on without making any reply or 
giving a sign of assent. 

“Besides,” I said at last, “your father spoke of 
twenty thousand sovereigns, actual gold coins. Now 
since 1914 nobody could possibly have got twenty 
thousand sovereigns. There aren’t that many in Eng¬ 
land. All the sovereigns there are are in New York 
now, locked up in bank safes, or else in Russia being 
melted down by the Bolsheviks. I forget where they 
are though I’ve often been told. But they’re certainly 
not to be had. Nobody nowadays could lay hands on 
twenty sovereigns, let alone twenty thousand.” 

This time she did answer me, in a most disconcert¬ 
ing manner. She walked over to a highly gilt cabinet 
with a marble top which stood against one of the walls 
of the room. She took from it a large cash box, car¬ 
ried it over to where I was sitting and dumped it down 
on the table in front of me. Inside of it was a heap of 
gold coins, good, solid, old-fashioned English sov¬ 
ereigns. At Genevieve’s request I counted them. 
There were two hundred thirty-seven. 


FOUND MONEY 


3 i 

I confess that I was amazed. I had not seen so 
many sovereigns since before the war. Genevieve 
pressed her advantage. 

“Now,” she said, “perhaps you’ll believe that the 
money is really buried where father says it is.” 

I was not convinced. A man might have—Wil- 
bred certainly had—a couple of hundred sovereigns 
stored away in a cash box and yet not be the owner of 
a vast buried treasure. On the other hand, part of the 
argument by which I sought to convince Genevieve 
had certainly broken down. It was not impossible to 
lay hands on twenty golden sovereigns in 1922. 

“It would be a pity,” she said, “to let all that 
money go to waste. And if you won’t help me I must 
just try to get it myself. But I’d much rather have 
you with me.” 

She smiled on me. How do girls learn to smile 
the way they do? If the trick of that kind of smiling 
is taught, then the teachers take a very grave responsi¬ 
bility. If it comes naturally then nature is to blame 
for a great deal of the mischief that is done in the 
world. 

“I am sure,” said Genevieve, “that you’d be splen¬ 
did at that sort of thing.” 

“Digging?” 


32 


FOUND MONEY 


“Certainly not,” said Genevieve. “We can always 
hire some one to dig. But think of all the fighting 
there’ll be; piraty kind of men, with guns, savages per¬ 
haps with poisoned arrows, ruffians of every sort, try¬ 
ing to murder us. I thought,” she went on reproach¬ 
fully, “I thought you’d enjoy adventures.” 

She must have been reading full-blooded romances 
of buried treasure, of hoards concealed on lonely 
islands by Captain Kidd and the notorious Blackbeard. 
Well, there are worse kinds of literature. I used to 
read books of that sort myself, before I took to writing 
long drawn-out analyses of the sex feelings of anemic 
young men in order to win the praise of the highbrow 
critics. Even now, though I have had my share of 
praise from superior persons, I am not so intellectual 
that my blood does not course a little quicker at the 
thought of a desert island and a buccaneer. 

“The first thing to do,” said Genevieve, “is to hire 
a schooner.” 

My heart jumped to a scheme which my head 
would certainly fail to approve. There can be nothing 
better in life than to go sailing tropic seas in a schoon¬ 
er. Coral islands bob up on the lee bow. Sharks with 
dorsal fins swim alongside. Painted savages in long 
canoes come paddling out from the shelter of their 


FOUND MONEY 


33 


palm-trees. Bananas and yams are daily bread. Wild 
songs are sung at night under the Southern cross, 
abaft the binnacle. 

But two hundred thirty-seven pounds, even in the 
form of golden sovereigns, will not go far toward the 
hire of a schooner. I have a little money of my own. 
If I had not I could not afford to be a novelist whom 
critics praise, but I was not quite prepared to risk my 
all in financing a treasure hunt. 

“Are you sure,” I said, “that your father's money 
is buried on an island ?” 

“Must be, I should think,” said Genevieve. “Treas¬ 
ure always is. But father never told me where it was.” 

I came down from the cloudland of romance with 
a bump. Of course Wilbred had never told her where 
the money was. He could not, because he had no 
money buried anywhere. 

“After you'd gone last night,” Genevieve went on, 
“he told me that it was all written down here.” 

As she spoke she took from the cash box a small 
bundle of papers fastened together with an elastic band. 

“He said I was to show you the papers,” she said. 
“I think he expected that you'd help me to find the 
money. And you will, won't you ? It’ll be rather fun 
for you as well as for me.” 


34 


FOUND MONEY 


I was conscious that she was smiling at me again. 
After a moment’s hesitation I slipped the band off 
the bundle of papers. I opened up the one which lay 
on top and spread it before me on the table. It was a 
large scale Ordnance Survey map of part of County 
Roscommon. Underlined in red ink was the name of 
a railway station, Knockcroghery. 

Genevieve, sitting opposite to me with her elbows 
on the table, peered at the map. It was upside down 
to her and for a minute she did not realize what it was. 
Then, when she had read one or two of the names, she 
exhibited every sign of acute disappointment. 

“Oh, Ireland,” she said. “Only Ireland. And I’m 
simply sick of Ireland.” 

It is annoying, of course, when you’ve been dream¬ 
ing of tropic islands, to find yourself looking at a map 
of part of the center of Ireland. I sympathized with 
Genevieve. But now, when the whole business is 
safely over, I am not at all sure that we did not get 
more adventure out of County Roscommon than we 
should have found among the Keys of Florida. 

“But what a funny name!” said Genevieve. 

She had slowly spelt out Knockcroghery, the sta¬ 
tion on the line which was underlined with red ink. I 
tried to pronounce it. So did Genevieve. It certainly 


FOUND MONEY 


35 


sounded funny. But if I had known then what I 
found out afterward I should have welcomed the name 
as an omen of dark deeds and haunting terrors lying 
before us. Knockcroghery means Hangman's Hill. Is 
even Dead Man's Rock better than that as a starting 
point for adventure? 

Near the railway station a church was marked on 
the map, and it had a red cross beside it. About three 
miles from the church, on the banks of the Shannon, a 
ruined castle was marked. Wilbred had put a red 
cross beside it. The church, so the map showed, stood 
under a little hill. The ruin lay low beside the river. 
Between the two was a broad stretch of bog and a few 
fields, one of them a very large field. In the middle 
of it was a tiny red dot. A line drawn from the church 
to the ruin would have passed through the red dot. 

“But how disappointing," said Genevieve. “Only 
Ireland! And I hoped to go sailing in a schooner. 
Don’t you love sailing?" 

I do: but I am not sure that I could sail a schooner 
half-way round the world. On the other hand, I think 
I could navigate a cutter on the Shannon and across 
the lake at Athlone. I pointed out to Genevieve that 
the river on the map was a large one and that the lake 
north of Knockcroghery seemed to be a considerable 


36 FOUND MONEY 

stretch of water. I told her that Ireland is a country 
in which adventure is quite possible, even common. 

“I’ve never been there, ,, I said, “but to judge by 
what one reads in the newspapers revolvers are in daily 
use.” 

“I suppose,” said Genevieve, “that you’re a dead 
shot with a revolver?” 

“Fair,” I said, “only fair.” 

In fact, I have never in my life fired a revolver; 
but I felt justified in claiming some skill with the 
weapon. I carried one, generally unloaded, during 
the two years that I served as a second-lieutenant in 
France. 

“Well,” said Genevieve, “you may want it. Ire¬ 
land is a bit disappointing after expecting a South Sea 
island. Still you’re quite right in saying that there’s 
lots of shooting there, especially in Dublin. I lived in 
Dublin with Aunt Josephine, so I know. But perhaps 
the treasure isn’t in Ireland at all. 

“We may only have to go to that Knockcroghery 
place to find the cryptogram. That’s often the way. 
You begin at one place and are led on to another by 
the cryptogram.” 


CHAPTER III 


4 {AV THY do you think there is a cryptogram?” I 
VV asked. 

“Sure to be. Must be, in fact. I never heard of 
a buried treasure without a cryptogram. Did you?” 

“You seem to have been reading a good many 
buried treasure books,” I said. 

“Every one I could lay hands on,” said Genevieve, 
“though of course Aunt Josephine disapproved strong¬ 
ly. Her idea of reading for girls is— But you know 
what Aunt Josephine is.” 

I knew nothing about Aunt Josephine except her 
Christian name. I was not much interested when 
Genevieve told me that she was an Irish patriot of 
great energy. 

“Once,” said Genevieve, “she was a Sunday-school 
teacher, and then I had to read Notes from the Mis¬ 
sion Field. That was bad enough. But when she be¬ 
came patriotic she dropped religion of all kinds and 
said that the only things worth reading were little 
paper-covered books in Irish and mucky stuff about 
37 


38 


FOUND MONEY 


republics. I call that sort of thing tosh, don't you? 
Not a thrill in a hundred pages of it." 

I dare say she is right: but I am afraid she might 
class my novels as tosh too. I have never gone in for 
thrills. 

While she was telling me about her Aunt Jose¬ 
phine’s literary tastes, Genevieve folded up the Ord¬ 
nance Survey map and possessed herself of the second 
paper of the little bundle she had taken from the cash 
box. She seemed disappointed with it. It was cer¬ 
tainly not a cryptogram. It was a perfectly plain set 
of directions for reaching the place where the treasure 
was buried. It was written in a neat legible hand, like 
the hand of a good clerk. I suppose that it was Wil- 
bred’s writing. Genevieve read it aloud. 

“After leaving the railway station, walk to the 
church on top of the hill, marked with a red cross on 
the Ordnance Survey map. Standing with your back 
to the north side of the tower you will see the ruins of 
an old castle by the river. Walk straight to it. There 
is no road or lane, but it is easy to keep a straight line 
until you come to the group of Ogam stones in the 
corner of the big field." 

That was all. I noticed that the document, though 
perfectly explicit, would have been useless to any one 


FOUND MONEY 


39 


who did not possess the Ordnance Survey map with 
the red crosses on it. There was no name mentioned, 
and a man might have been a long time guessing that 
the county was Roscommon and the railway station 
Knockcroghery, if he had not possessed the marked 
map. Even with the map the directions seemed in¬ 
sufficient. It was not a group of stones that we wanted 
to find. 

“What are Ogam stones?” said Genevieve. 

I had a vague idea that Ogam stones are prehis¬ 
toric remains of immense antiquity, something like 
the slabs that are to be seen at Stonehenge, but on a 
smaller scale. 

“I don’t know that I can tell you much about 
them,” I said, “but I’m sure they must be quite easy 
to recognize. I don’t suppose we can well mistake 
them for anything else once we see them.” 

“But what are we to do when we get to them?” 
said Genevieve. 

“There’s still another paper,” I said. “Let’s see 
what it is.” 

The next paper consisted of two parts. On the 
top half of it was a sketch of a stone, which looked 
like a very old tombstone. The drawing was carefully 
done, and there were certain peculiarities about the 


40 


FOUND MONEY 


stone which would have made it easy to recognize it. 
One corner was broken off. The edges were worn 
smooth, and there was a crack running diagonally 
from the broken corner to the base of the stone. Wil- 
bred—I suppose that he had made the drawing—had 
been most careful. Below the sketch was a little 
scale, marked off in feet and inches. I judged that 
the stone was about four feet high and about eighteen 
inches wide. 

The lower half of the paper had what looked like 
an inscription on it, but the letters were not like any 
script that I had ever seen. They were simply a num¬ 
ber of straight lines. Some were higher, some went 
down lower than others. Some were slightly sloped. 
They were arranged in three rows, like printed matter 
on a page. There was not a single curve in the whole 
inscription. 

“I knew there’d be a cryptogram,” said Genevieve. 
“There was bound to be, and I must say it looks rather 
a teaser. Do you think we’ll be able to make anything 
out of it?” 

I did not mean to try. I handed the sketch to 
Genevieve and went on with the one remaining paper. 
It contained a short note in Wilbred’s neat handwrit- 


FOUND MONEY 


4i 


“Make sure that you have got the right stone,” I 
read, “by comparing it with the one I have sketched, 
and by seeing that the inscription is exactly the same 
as the copy I have made. All the stones have inscrip¬ 
tions and they look very much alike; but I have made 
a perfectly accurate copy and no two inscriptions are 
exactly the same in the whole group of stones. When 
you are sure of the stone, raise it and dig.” 

I looked round at Genevieve. She was making a 
copy of the inscription shown underneath the sketch, 
evidently with a view to studying it carefully and dis¬ 
covering its meaning. 

“You needn’t do that,” I said. “The whole thing 
is simple, almost distressingly simple. We’ve nothing 
to do but find the stone with that inscription on it and 
then dig.” 

“But what does the inscription mean ?” 

“That,” I replied, “we shall probably never know. 
The ancient Ogamites, whoever they were, are all 
dead, and I don’t think anybody has ever found out 
what they meant by those scratches. Anyhow, it 
doesn’t matter to us.” 

“Then it isn’t a cryptogram after all,” said Gene¬ 
vieve. “How disgusting!” 

“In all my experience of buried treasures,” I said, 


42 


FOUND MONEY 


“I never came across a case before in which the orig¬ 
inal burier gave such perfectly straight-forward direc¬ 
tions for finding his cache. Your father was a man 
of quite original mind. He broke away from all tra¬ 
ditions. We could hardly make a mistake if we tried.” 

I left the old chateau half an hour later, and spent 
the rest of the day making arrangements for Wilbred’s 
funeral. It was a troublesome and difficult business, 
and I made up my mind before I had interviewed the 
last of a long series of officials that I should dis¬ 
courage my relatives from dying in foreign lands. I 
am told that it is very difficult for a British subject to 
be born or to get married outside the shadow of the 
imperial flag. But I should rather be born half a 
dozen times or commit bigamy, than try to be buried 
in France. 

Yet my trouble with the French law was nothing 
to the worry which beset me about Genevieve’s future 
and my own. All my first skepticism about Wilbred’s 
buried treasure returned to me. After reading his 
papers I saw more clearly than ever the absurdity of 
the whole thing. No man would bury twenty 
thousand sovereigns under a stone in a field in County 
Roscommon and leave them there. I could not even 
imagine a reason why any one should do such a thing. 


FOUND MONEY 


43 

Yet it seemed as if Wilbred himself believed in his 
treasure. Indeed, it was hard to see why he should 
want to hoax his own daughter, and I could think of 
no other way of accounting for the papers I had read. 
They were carefully drawn up, perfectly lucid and 
straightforward, not in the least like the work of a 
man who was suffering from delirium tremens or any 
other form of mental disturbance. 

I noticed, and the fact struck me as odd, that with 
the exception of the Ordnance Survey map the papers 
were quite new. The ink of the writing was fresh and 
unfaded. The lines of the pencil sketch of the Ogam 
stone were unblurred. The paper used was fresh. I 
recognized it because I had bought some exactly like 
it early in the summer in St. Malo. Genevieve told me 
that she and her father had only been in France for 
six weeks. It seemed to follow that all the documents 
in our hands had been drawn up during that time. 
But plainly some of them must be copies of older 
papers in Wilbred’s possession. The written direc¬ 
tions and the red crosses marked on the Ordnance Sur¬ 
vey map might easily have been made from memory 
by any one who knew the district, but no one, I 
thought could have made the sketch of the Ogam 
stone, or set down the inscription with any degree of 


44 


FOUND MONEY 


confidence, unless he had at hand some sketches to 
copy from, sketches made on the spot. The inscrip¬ 
tion indeed, a perfectly meaningless series of straight 
lines of various lengths, was a thing which it would 
have been impossible to commit to memory. 

I got some light on this point the day before Wil- 
bred was buried, and what I saw convinced me of the 
enormous importance he attached to the identification 
of that particular stone. 

The French doctor, who was most kind and help¬ 
ful all along, secured the services of an old woman, a 
sort of nurse, to lay out the body. When I visited the 
chateau the day after her arrival, she insisted on my 
going in to see the body. I went, because I could 
not well help myself and because the old woman was 
evidently very anxious that I should. But I was not 
allowed simply to view a shrouded corpse. The old 
woman turned back half of the sheet which covered it 
and showed me the lower part of the legs. On the in¬ 
side of the calf of the right leg was tattooed the Ogam 
inscription exactly as it appeared on Wilbred’s paper. 
The calf of the left leg bore the sketch of the stone. I 
recognized them at once. 

Wilbred had made use of veritable human docu¬ 
ments to keep the memory of his secret fresh. The 


FOUND MONEY 


45 


tattooing looked as if it had been done for some time. 
The old nurse, who evidently knew a great deal about 
the human body, assured me that the marks were years 
old, five years old, or ten perhaps. I inferred that 
Wilbred had not only been very anxious to keep his 
record safe; but had been in some part of the world 
for the last ten years or so where it had been very dif¬ 
ficult or impossible for him to carry papers about with 
him. He was bound to take his legs with him wher¬ 
ever he went, and no robbers, whatever else they might 
steal, would steal them. 

I think it was this tattooing on Wilbred’s legs 
which first made me believe in his buried treasure. 
Even then I did not quite believe. I certainly did not 
believe that there were twenty thousand sovereigns 
under that stone in County Roscommon. But I be¬ 
lieved enough to want to go and investigate the mat¬ 
ter for myself. There did not seem to be any great 
difficulty about the business. According to the Ord¬ 
nance Survey map the place was quite a lonely one. 
There was the railway station, with, presumably, a sta¬ 
tion master’s house. There was the church on the hill 
and a rectory house marked about a mile away from it. 
There was no other house shown on the map, and I 
took it for granted that the ruin beside the river was 


46 


FOUND MONEY 


uninhabited. It seemed to me that it was a place in 
which a man could do as he liked, even dig holes in 
the middle of a field if he chose, without anybody ask¬ 
ing his questions. 

There was just one obstacle which prevented my 
going straight off to Knockcroghery—Genevieve. 
The obvious thing was to leave her with the old Breton 
servant and her two hundred twenty-seven pounds in 
the Chateau d’Aix until I came back, with or without 
Wilbred’s treasure. But this I could not do, because 
Genevieve flatly refused to stay. 

“Don’t be an old silly,” she said. “Do you think 
I can’t dig just as well as you can ?” 

It was not, of course, her capacity for digging that 
was troubling me. 

“You'tlon’t really think that I’ll stay here by my¬ 
self,” she said, “and miss the most exciting thing that 
has ever happened in my life? 

“I don’t believe you’d be half as quick as I should,” 
she said a moment later, “about recognizing that 
stone.” 

“But, Genevieve,” I said, “you must consider—” 

Then I stopped. How on earth was I to explain 
to the girl that what she had to consider first of all 
was her own reputation. I am not, I trust, a slavish 


FOUND MONEY 


47 


worshiper of our conventional moral code. I am as 
pleased as any man living to give a shock to the pro¬ 
prieties overvalued by—well, by men like my brother- 
in-law, George Stubbington. But I was not going off 
into the wilds of Roscommon on an unmarried honey¬ 
moon with a nice innocent girl who did not know what 
she was doing. And that was just the trouble about 
Genevieve. She was incredibly, before I met her I 
should have said impossibly, innocent. Perhaps inno¬ 
cence is really a form of stupidity, one of those things 
against which the gods themselves strive in vain. I 
certainly strove quite vainly to make Genevieve see 
that there was any objection to her touring the coun¬ 
try with me. 

At last I telegraphed to my sister and claimed her 
help. I did this very unwillingly; but not because I 
was afraid of Lucy or what she might say and think. 
Lucy is a very good-natured woman and really fond of 
me. She would have received Genevieve if I had 
asked her and would have made no inquiries about the 
treasure hunt. She is so sensible and kind that she 
would have explained to Genevieve easily what I could 
not explain at all, the impossibility of her traveling 
about with me. 

But Lucy is married to a worthy, upright, solid, re- 


4 8 


FOUND MONEY 


liable, unimaginative London business man. George 
Stubbington invariably does what is right, and he al¬ 
ways knows what is right, because if he is not quite 
sure about it himself he consults his solicitor before 
doing anything at all. I do not suppose he has ever 
had to repent a single hasty or inconsiderate action, 
and he never will. He intensely dislikes anything the 
least unusual, and I knew that the very mention of 
buried treasure would outrage his sense of decency. 

I might have written to Lucy, explaining precisely 
the position in which I found myself. But she would 
have shown the letter to George and—I could scarcely 
imagine what George would say about the daughter 
of a deceased drunkard and twenty thousand sover¬ 
eigns under a stone. I know what he would have 
done. He would have written me a strong letter urg¬ 
ing me to get out of a “fishy” business as quickly as I 
could. He would also have forbidden Lucy to have 
anything at all to do with Genevieve, and Lucy would 
have obeyed him. She has her own children to con¬ 
sider, three healthy boys very like their father, and 
George would have shown her that her first duty was 
to them. Knowing all this about the Stubbingtons I 
did not write. I telegraphed, and made my message 
as brief as I could. 


FOUND MONEY’ 


49 


“Am crossing from St. Malo Thursday, bringing 
with me for a few days an orphan girl. Her father 
died suddenly. No relatives in France!” 

“Orphan girl” was a perfectly true description of 
Genevieve; but it would suggest to the Stubbingtons a 
child of six or seven years old. The touch about the 
sudden death of her father and the dearth of relatives 
on the spot would move Lucy’s pity. She has a very 
tender heart. It would also appeal to George. He is 
something more than stolid and respectable. He is 
kind; and as a Christian—George is a steady church¬ 
man—he recognizes it to be his duty to help those in 
distress, so long as their distress is not of an outre or 
very unusual kind. 

My telegram had exactly the effect I hoped for. I 
got my answer from Lucy sooner than I expected. 

“Delighted. Do not bring child’s nurse. Our 
Nana will look after her.” 

George probably objected to having a French maid 
of strange manners and perhaps doubtful morals in his 
house. That was why Lucy wasted her money on 
eleven words about the nurse. I wondered what he 
would do when he saw Genevieve. 

One comfort was that he would not see her till 
he returned from the city in the evening. The boat 


50 


FOUND MONEY 


in which I meant to sail would not reach Southhamp¬ 
ton till nine a. m. By the time Genevieve and I got 
to the Stubbingtons’ house in St. John’s Wood it 
would be noon at least, and long before that George 
would have gone to his office. 

Then it would be up to Genevieve to make the best 
impression she could on Lucy, and I had very little 
doubt about her making a good one. Genevieve has 
great charm of manner. I saw a great deal of her 
during the days following her father’s death, and her 
charm impressed me. 

I told Genevieve that my sister had invited us to 
stay with her in London on our way to Ireland. She 
received the news without enthusiasm and said she 
hoped we would not stay long. I did not tell her that 
Lucy’s Nana would put her to bed and feed her on 
bread and milk. That might have amused her, but it 
might have made her so angry that she would have 
refused to go near Lucy’s house. I did not know then, 
and am not sure even now, how Genevieve will take 
things. She has an uncomfortable way of surprising 
me just when I feel surest. 


CHAPTER IV 


S IX years ago, soon after his marriage, George 
Stubbington bought the house in which he now 
lives. It is a medium-sized square house, detached 
from its neighbors. It was built before the era of 
“art” in domestic architecture began. It is ugly, of 
course, but not nearly so repulsive as several other 
houses in the same row which were built a few years 
later in the Queen Anne, Tudor, and Early English 
timbered styles. George’s house is warm and comfort¬ 
able. It can be run smoothly by three efficient maids, 
and Lucy always has three efficient maids to run it, as 
well as Nana, the boys’ nurse. I mention these points 
about the Stubbingtons’ household because they ac¬ 
count for my having no misgivings about my bringing 
an unexpected guest to stay with them. 

Lucy received us cordially when we arrived; but 
she was certainly surprised to see Genevieve. Her 
first idea was that in spite of George’s message I had 
brought a nursery governess for my foundling orphan. 

“But, Johnny,” she said, after kissing me and shak¬ 
ing hands with Genevieve, “where’s the child ?” 

51 


52 


FOUND MONEY 


Lucy never had . a very high opinion of my com¬ 
mon sense. She thought me quite capable of having 
deposited the child in the Cloak Room at Waterloo or 
dropped it overboard between St. Malo and South¬ 
ampton. 

“There’s no child,” I said. “You made a mistake 
about that. The word I used in my telegram was ‘or¬ 
phan,’ not ‘baby.’ An orphan may be of any age. I’ve 
known orphans of sixty and seventy.” 

Lucy looked Genevieve up and down. I think she 
was a little displeased at first to find that she was 
even further from old age than from infancy. 

“This,” I said, “is Genevieve, that is to say, Miss 
Wilbred. Now don’t say you didn’t invite her to stay 
with, you, Lucy. I have your telegram in my pocket to 
prove that you did.” 

I took it out of my pocket as I spoke. Lucy did 
not look at it. She remembered the part about Nana 
looking after Genevieve in the nursery. I smiled, and 
so did she. Genevieve could not have known what the 
joke was because I had never shown her the telegram, 
but when she saw us smiling she burst into a little rip¬ 
ple of laughter. Genevieve has a most attractive way 
of laughing. Lucy, who has a very kind heart, res¬ 
ponded to the laughter at once. She took Genevieve by 


FOUND MONEY 


53 


the arm and led her away, murmuring something about 
a hot bath after a long journey. Then I knew that I 
was all right as far as Lucy was concerned. But I had 
never been much afraid of her. It was George’s re¬ 
ception of the girl about which I felt doubtful. 

About an hour later Lucy came down-stairs again 
and found me in George’s study. I was smoking a 
pipe filled with George’s tobacco. English govern¬ 
ments have done a great deal to make themselves 
odious to decent men, but they have not yet established 
a state monopoly in tobacco. When they do, I hope 
there will be a revolution. I had been smoking 
French government tobacco for months, and I should 
be sorry to think that the British working man would 
put up with such stuff for a week. 

Lucy sat down on the arm of my chair. 

“Now, Johnny,” she said, “please tell me exactly 
how you come to be gallivanting about the country 
with a pretty girl.” 

“I should hardly call her a girl,” I said, “at least 
not in that sense of the word. Say a child.” 

“I’ll call her a young woman,” said Lucy, “for 
that’s what she is. How does her mother allow it ?” 

“Her mother died when she was a baby,” I said, 
“and her father died four days ago. She hasn’t a 


54 


FOUND MONEY 


relative in the world except one aunt called Josephine, 
who’s a most objectionable woman.” 

“Of course I know,” said Lucy, “that the modern 
girl does things—” 

“You’re not exactly ancient yourself,” I said, 
“though you have three boys.” 

“Still,” said Lucy, a little mollified, “I don’t think 
it's quite proper.” 

“It isn’t,” I said. “I know it’s most improper, and 
that’s exactly why I brought her to you.” 

“I must say,” said Lucy, “that she’s a most attrac¬ 
tive girl, and she was perfectly sweet with the three 
boys when I took her into the nursery to see them, 
and, as I was saying to George the other day, it’s quite 
time you married and settled down.” 

That was going too far and too fast. I had asked 
Lucy to receive Genevieve as a guest, not as a sister-in- 
law. I was not going to be rushed into a marriage, 
even though I did agree with Lucy about Genevieve’s 
attractiveness. 

“My dear Lucy,” I said, “there’s no question of 
my marrying her.” 

“Of course I know you’re a literary man,” said 
Lucy, “and so you think you can do what you like 
about—well, about things that other people think 
wrong; but still—” 


FOUND MONEY 


55 


Lucy—and George—have an idea that any one 
who writes is a sort of chartered libertine tolerated by 
society because he is not quite sane and therefore not 
responsible for his actions. 

“I hope,” said Lucy, “that you’ll be able to ex¬ 
plain things satisfactorily to George.” 

I too hoped that, but I was not at all confident. I 
was not looking forward to being cross-examined by 
George. However, I had a plan of defense ready, and 
I tried it on Lucy to see how it worked. 

“George,” I said, “will understand the position per¬ 
fectly when I tell him that I’m sole executor of Wil- 
bred’s will, at least I should be if he’d made a will. 
Anyhow, I’m trustee for Genevieve’s property.” 

“Of course, if there’s property—” said Lucy. 

Property, like charity, covers a multitude of sins, 
especially of impropriety. Lucy is not in the least mer¬ 
cenary, but she thought better of Genevieve because 
of her property and of me because I was a trustee. 

“If there’s property,” said Lucy, “George won’t 
think it quite so queer. How much is there?” 

“Twenty thousand pounds,” I said. “That’s what 
George would call the face value of the property. In 
reality it must be worth a great deal more. It’s all in 
golden sovereigns, and I should think they have a spec¬ 
ial value now as rare and ancient coins.” 


56 


FOUND MONEY 


“You’ll have to talk to George about the value of 
sovereigns,” said Lucy. “I don’t know anything about 
that. But I’m glad she has a little money. You could 
hardly have afforded to marry a girl without a penny.” 

“My dear Lucy, when I want to marry I shall look 
out for a grown-up woman. Genevieve is a mere 
child.” 

Lucy patted my head. Then she kissed my fore¬ 
head. She was still sitting on the arm of my chair. 

“Now,” she said, “tell me all about it right from 
the very beginning.” 

She slid off the arm of my chair and settled herself 
on a stool in front of the fire. I told her the story 
very much as I have written it down, leaving out noth¬ 
ing except that Genevieve’s fortune was buried under 
a stone. I thought that fact might take off something 
from the respectability of the property. Really nice 
people do not hide their money in that way, and I did 
not want Lucy to think that Genevieve’s father was 
also literary. 

“I shall have to go over to Ireland at once,” I said, 
“and I should like you to keep Genevieve here till I 
come back.” 

“Of course we’ll be delighted to have her,” said 
Lucy. 


FOUND MONEY 


57 


“Thanks,” I said. “I knew I could count on you, 
Lucy. But when I said keep her, I meant it literally. 
She may not want to stay.” 

I knew perfectly well that she would not. 

“She’s sure to want to come over to Ireland with 
me,” I said. “You see, she’s really only a child.” 

“She’s not such a child as to be able to do that,” 
said Lucy firmly. “Besides, she must get some mourn¬ 
ing. I suppose she had no time in France. But that 
red hat of hers— And less than a week after her fath¬ 
er’s death.” 

I had forgotten all about mourning; but when 
Lucy mentioned it I became quite hopeful. Most girls 
like buying new clothes, and if Genevieve were offered 
an orgy of shopping in London, she might very well be 
content to stay there. 

“Good,” I said. “I’ll leave all that to you. Get 
whatever you think is necessary, but don’t run into 
extremes in the way of crepe. It would be a pity to 
make Genevieve look like a funeral horse.” 

“But it’s her father.” 

“Yes,” I said, “but she scarcely knew him. I ex¬ 
plained that to you, Lucy.” 

“Still he left her a lot of money, and in common 
decency—” 


58 


FOUND MONEY 


“Oh, all right,” I said. “Get what you like so long 
as Genevieve agrees.” 

“And, Johnny,” said Lucy, “you will consult 
George about the property, won’t you?” 

It was the last thing in the world I meant to do. 
If the property had been of any other kind—land, 
stocks, shares, mortgages, houses, ships, anything or¬ 
dinary—I should have consulted George at once. In 
fact, I think I should have left him to deal with the 
matter. There is no sounder man of business in the 
whole city of London. But I did not think that he 
would approve of the buried treasure hunt. 

“You see, Johnny dear,” said Lucy, “you’re not 
very good at business, though you’re tremendously 
clever at literature and all that, so do promise me to 
consult George.” 

She was behind my chair again, stroking my hair 
in a very persuasive manner. 

“Particularly when the property is in Ireland,” she 
went on. “Ireland is in such a terribly unsettled state. 
George says there’s really no government there at all.” 

That, as I saw things, was distinctly a point in my 
favor. If I had to go treasure hunting I would much 
rather do it in a thoroughly unsettled country. Gov¬ 
ernments have a nasty habit of laying claim to treasure 


FOUND MONEY 


59 


trove, and my best way of securing Genevieve’s for¬ 
tune for her was to slip it out of Ireland before any 
government succeeded in establishing itself. 

Yet I rather wished that I could consult George 
about the legal aspect of the affair. I was very un¬ 
certain about the position of the owner of the field. 
Could I claim the right to dig in his land in order to 
obtain access to Genevieve’s property ? I did not know. 
I did not even know whether the money still belonged 
to Wilbred after he had buried it in land owned by 
some one else. George would no doubt be able to put 
me right about these points and half a dozen others 
which occurred to me. I was half inclined to take 
Lucy’s advice and consult him. 

But I was very much afraid that he might regard 
Wilbred’s story as either a joke or a swindle. I did 
not want to sit in front of him, like a naughty school¬ 
boy, while he talked cold common sense to me. Nor 
did I like to think of the way he would tell the story 
of Genevieve’s buried treasure to other business men 
like himself. I could easily imagine how he and his 
friends would snigger over it across the luncheon 
tables of their club. 

“These writing fellows,” so comment would go. 
“Very clever and all that. But when it comes to 


6o 


FOUND MONEY 


money, they’re simply fools. Take my word for it, 
Stubbington, simply fools.” 

Or there might very well be worse than that. 

“The girl’s pretty,” you say. “That accounts for 
the whole thing. If I were you, Stubbington, I’d get 
your brother-in-law out of it before it’s too late. Even 
if it costs him a couple of hundred, he’d better pay up. 
It’s always better to pay up in these cases.” 

The more I thought the matter over—and I spent 
the afternoon thinking of little else—the more clearly 
I saw that I’d better be very careful what I said to 
George. A mention of Genevieve’s property would be 
safe, and was in any case inevitable. Any hint that 
Genevieve’s property was under an Ogam stone in a 
corner of a field in Roscommon would be likely to get 
me into trouble. 


CHAPTER V 


G EORGE STUBBINGTON behaved very nicely 
to Genevieve. This, I admit, surprised me. I 
did not expect him to be rude to her. George is a 
gentleman, with the traditions of a public school and 
an Oxford college behind him. He would not have 
been rude to any woman whom he found installed as a 
guest in his house. But I fully expected him to be a 
great deal surprised, and to show it. He found a 
young woman in a red skirt and a gaily striped blouse, 
where he expected a tearful child in deep black. I 
think Genevieve’s clothes gave George a real shock, 
though he did not allow her to discover that. They 
were probably the best, perhaps the only presentable 
clothes the girl had, so she could not be blamed for 
wearing them. But I am sure that George had never 
before seen a recently bereaved orphan dressed in 
bright colors. He can not possibly have liked it. An 
orphan with nothing on at all would probably have 
struck him as less indecent. However, he took it won¬ 
derfully well, and chatted to her quite amiably all 
through dinner. 


61 


62 


FOUND MONEY 


Afterward, when Lucy had taken Genevieve away, 
George sat down to the business of finding out ex¬ 
actly who she was and how I came to be in charge of 
her. I nerved myself to the task of evading his in¬ 
quiries, not a very easy business with a man like 
George. 

“I suppose/’ he began, “that this poor fellow Wil- 
bred was a great friend of yours.” 

“I should hardly say a great friend,” I replied. “I 
knew him of course, but we were never really inti¬ 
mate.” 

“Still,” said George, “he must have known you 
pretty well or he wouldn’t have made you his daugh¬ 
ter’s guardian.” 

“I’m not exactly her guardian,” I said. “I shan’t 
have any responsibility for her once I get her affairs 
settled up.” 

“Affairs” is a good word, just the sort of word 
George likes, and it did not commit me to anything in 
particular. 

“Lucy tells me,” he said, “that there is some little 
property.” 

Lucy had been wise. And her mention of the 
property beforehand accounted for George’s civility at 
dinner. I do not want to make it appear that my 


FOUND MONEY 


63 


brother-in-law is an avaricious man or a money grub¬ 
ber. Still less that he is one of those financial snobs 
who are ready to worship any calf if it is sufficiently 
gilded. George is not that kind of man at all. He re¬ 
spects property, just as he respects the Ten Command¬ 
ments and the Church of England and the public 
school system, because it is a respectable solid thing 
with no flightiness about it. When you are dealing 
with property you know where you are and under¬ 
stand what is happening. That is why George likes to 
deal with property. 

“I don’t know exactly what it’s worth,” I said. 
“Wilbred put it at twenty thousand pounds, but it may 
be a little more, or, of course, a little less.” 

The sum seemed a large one to me. Even to 
George I hoped it would seem considerable. But he 
was unimpressed. Indeed, his next remark took all 
the splendor from Genevieve’s fortune. It collapsed as 
if it had been a child’s air balloon and George had 
pricked it. 

“In Ireland,” he said. “Lucy mentioned that it is 
in Ireland.” 

If he had said in German marks or Russian roubles 
he could not have depreciated it more completely. 

“Land, I suppose,” said George. “And Irish land.” 


6 4 


FOUND MONEY 


The shrug of his shoulders was eloquent. It rather 
annoyed me. 

“No,” I said, “it’s not land. That is to say, it is 
not exactly land, though it’s connected with land.” 

That was true. The twenty thousand pounds, if 
there at all, was intimately connected whh land. I 
wondered what George would say if I told him that it 
was buried in a field under an Ogstn stone. 

“Ah,” said George, “mortgages. If you take my 
advice you’ll put the whole business into the hands of 
Wilkinson and Park. They’re the best people I know 
for that kind of thing.” 

Wilkinson and Park were evidently solicitors. 
Since George recommended them, they were probably 
men without a scrap of imagination or romance. I 
shrank from asking them to send their head clerk to 
help me to dig up a field in County Roscommon. 

“Wilkinson and Park,” said George, “understand 
land thoroughly.” 

“Irish land?” I asked, though I had little hope of 
getting out of it that way. 

To my surprise George hesitated. 

“No man in the world,” he said, “understands 
Irish land.” 

“I thought of consulting a Dublin solicitor,” I re¬ 
plied. 


FOUND MONEY 


65 


I had not, of course, the slightest intention of do¬ 
ing anything of the sort; but I wanted to escape the 
interview with Wilkinson and Park. 

“Well,” said George, “perhaps you’re right. We’ll 
go round to Wilkinson and Park to-morrow morning 
and get them to introduce you to a good Dublin firm.” 

I could not say so to George, but the only intro¬ 
duction I wanted was one to a good strong agricultural 
laborer in Knockcroghery, a man who could dig, and 
move heavy stones. I did not think it likely that 
Wilkinson and Park could help me there. Nor would 
they tell me another thing I wanted to know, the name 
of the best shop in Dublin for buying spades, pick- 
axes and crowbars. I do not suppose they could even 
have given me the name of a professor who specialized 
in Ogam stones. It was not likely that I should want 
the help of a man of that sort, but I might. 

“Thanks, George,” I said. “Thanks awfully; but 
I’m afraid I shan’t have time to see anybody in Lon¬ 
don. I think I ought to start for Ireland by the early 
train to-morrow, eight-thirty a. m., from Euston.” 

That early train from Euston was a sudden inspira¬ 
tion, but a most fortunate one for me. In the first 
place it impressed George immensely. There is noth¬ 
ing he admires more than promptitude and decision in 
matters of business. 


66 


FOUND MONEY 


“Quite right,” he said, “quite right. Far better 
get over there at once. I’ll do the needful for you 
here. I’ll get the name of a good firm of Dublin 
solicitors from Wilkinson and Park early to-morrow 
and wire it to you, if you leave me the name of your 
Dublin hotel.” 

I did not in the least mind his doing that. All I 
wanted to avoid was a personal interview with Wil¬ 
kinson or Park, and the early train saved me from 
that. 

“You’ll have to be careful,” said George. “Ire¬ 
land’s in a queer state at present, very queer.” 

I was, as I have said, rather glad of that. I was 
going to Ireland on a queer business. A little confu¬ 
sion and a general unsettledness were likely to be 
rather an advantage to me. George hates disorders of 
any kind and deeply distrusts revolutions, which he re¬ 
gards as dangerous to property. So they are, to most 
kinds of property; but Genevieve’s was property of a 
very peculiar kind. A really fundamental revolution 
might be the greatest help to me in realizing that twen¬ 
ty thousand pounds. However, I thought I ought to 
reassure George, and I did not want Wilkinson and 
Park to be pelting me with telegrams or perhaps set¬ 
ting some reliable Dublin lawyer on my track. 


FOUND MONEY 67 

“Sullivan and McSweeny were Wilbred’s solici¬ 
tors,” I said. 

That may have been a lie, but I am not sure that 
it was. There may be a firm of solicitors in Dublin 
bearing those names, and they may have acted for 
Wilbred while he lived. At all events, if it was a lie it 
was the first I had told George, and that was a credit 
to me. 

I wished afterward that I had said Robinson and 
Johnston or Smith and Brown. George shook his 
head over Sullivan and McSweeny. The names were 
unmistakably Irish, and no Irishman is reliable. How¬ 
ever—I could read his thoughts in his face—George 
soon cheered up again. Wilbred was a man of prop¬ 
erty. He had remained a man of property up to the 
day of his death. He could hardly have done that un¬ 
less his solicitors were respectable people. 

“I knew a Wilbred once,” said George thought¬ 
fully. “He was in tea, I think. Retired just before 
the war and bought himself a little place in Shropshire. 
James—no, John—no, perhaps James. I forget the 
name, but the initial was certainly J.” 

“Not the same man,” I said. “My friend’s name 
was Quartus.” 

I knew that because I had been obliged to write it 


68 


FOUND MONEY 


down about a hundred times before the French Gov¬ 
ernment would allow me to bury him. I had been 
worried by it a great deal because no Frenchman 
would believe that it was a real name, and when I 
convinced them that Wilbred had no other they used 
to insist on trying to pronounce it, which, of course, 
they could not do. That had annoyed me at the time; 
but face to face with George Stubbington I was glad 
that the name was such a peculiar one. If it had been 
Thomas or Robert or William, or any ordinary name 
he would have gone on searching his memory until he 
found a man to match it. When I said Quartus I 
hoped he would give up the attempt to identify Wil¬ 
bred. But George is a persistent man. 

“Quartus Wilbred,” he said. “I seem to recollect 
that name, but I can’t quite fix the man.” 

That bothered George. He hates to have untidy 
tags of memories hanging about him which he can not 
arrange in proper order. 

“My Wilbred,” I said, “has been abroad a great 
deal, exploring. Central Africa, I think. But I’m not 
sure.” 

That too was pretty near what I believed to be the 
truth. Wilbred must have been in some queer places 
or he would not have felt it necessary to tattoo val¬ 
uable memoranda on his legs. 


FOUND MONEY 


69 


After that we got up and went into the drawing¬ 
room. Lucy was there, but Genevieve had gone to 
bed, tired out after her journey. 

I at once perceived a third advantage about my de¬ 
termination to start for Ireland by the early train next 
morning. I had not only earned George’s good opin¬ 
ion and escaped an interview with Wilkinson and 
Park, I had also avoided a long argument with Gen¬ 
evieve. She wanted to come with me to Ireland, and 
would, if she could, have insisted. Lucy would have 
wanted to accompany us in the interests of propriety. 
George would have objected to that, and I should have 
been involved in an irritating discussion which would 
very likely have ended in our all going to Knockcrogh- 
ery: Genevieve and I, Lucy and George, perhaps even 
Wilkinson and Park. Perhaps by taking that early 
train next morning I should get off without even see¬ 
ing Genevieve. I blessed the inspiration, but I was go¬ 
ing to take no risks. 

“Lucy,” I said, “do you think one of your servants 
could call me at six to-morrow morning and have a taxi 
at the door at seven?” 

I should be an hour too early at Euston if the ser¬ 
vant really did all that; but I had rather be several 
hours too early and sit all the time in a waiting-room 
than have an argument with Genevieve. 


;o 


FOUND MONEY 


“George and I,” I said, “have been talking over 
Genevieve’s affairs, and he thinks I ought to start for 
Dublin as soon as possible, by the very first available 
train. He pressed that on me very strongly.” 

George nodded. I dare say he had begun to think 
that it was he who had suggested the early train to me. 

“In fact,” I went on, “if I had only talked to 
George a little sooner I should probably have started 
by the night mail to-night, but by the time we had 
finished dinner it was too late to catch that.” 

“Quite,” said George. 

Luck rang the bell and gave the necessary order. 

“I think,” I said, “that you ought to give Gene¬ 
vieve her breakfast in bed to-morrow morning. The 
poor girl is tired out. She’s been through a trying 
time lately.” 

If I got off by half past seven and Genevieve 
stayed in bed till eleven or twelve I ought to be quite 
safe. 

When bedtime came Lucy took me up to my room. 

“I am so glad,” she said, “that you consulted 
George, and that you are going to take his advice. I 
was afraid you wouldn’t. Of course, I know that 
George is not nearly so clever as you in some ways. 
He isn’t literary.” 


FOUND MONEY 71 

“‘Literature,” I said kindly, “isn’t everything. 
George is making money fast.” 

“That’s just it,” said Lucy, “and Genevieve’s hav¬ 
ing that money makes it all so suitable. Not that I’m 
mercenary, Johnny, and I do think that Genevieve is 
one of the sweetest girls I ever met, and so full of life. 
Just exactly the sort of wife you want, to shake you up 
a bit. Still I can’t help feeling that it’s just as well she 
has that money. As you say, there isn’t much to be 
made out of literature.” 

I went to bed wondering if Lucy talked to Gene¬ 
vieve as she does to me. If so—-well, nothing she can 
say is likely to startle Genevieve as much as Genevieve 
would startle her and George if she told them the truth 
about her father’s money. 


CHAPTER VI 


M Y journey to Ireland gave me time to think. It 
was the first time for thought I had enjoyed 
since the night Wilbred’s message came to me in St. 
Jacut. I had spent two days rushing to and fro be¬ 
tween the Chateau d’Aix, Ploubalay, the nearest town, 
and St. Malo, where I found an English consul. That 
was while I was making arrangements for Wilbred’s 
funeral. After that I had seen a great deal of Gene¬ 
vieve while I was helping her to get clear of the 
chateau, and she is not exactly a restful person. On 
the journey home she talked to me steadily the whole 
time, except when both she and I were asleep. After 
that came my cross-examinations by Lucy and George. 

I was glad to be by myself at last in the railway 
carriage of the Irish mail, or- if not actually alone, at 
all events surrounded by people who had no right to 
talk to me. But my thoughts were not particularly 
pleasant. Indeed, I began to feel that if I had been 
able to consider my position a little sooner I should not 
have found myself in that train with a ticket to 
Knockcroghery in my pocket. 

72 


FOUND MONEY 


73 


I began to realize all sorts of difficulties which I 
had not thought about before I started. Wilbred’s 
directions were plain enough. I had little doubt that I 
could find the church on the hill, spot the ruin on the 
river bank and walk straight from one to the other, 
encountering the group of Ogam stones on the way. 
All that was simple. But when I got to the Ogam 
stones and identified the one I wanted, what was I to 
do next? 

It is all very well to go digging for treasure on 
desert islands where there is no one to interfere with 
you except an occasional savage and perhaps a rival 
buccaneer, who has no more right to the place than 
you have. In Ireland every acre of land is owned by 
somebody, very likely claimed by half a dozen peo¬ 
ple. What would the proprietors or rival proprietors 
say if they saw a total stranger uprooting Ogam stones 
and digging large holes in a valuable field? That 
thought troubled me. Even if I went by night and 
succeeded in concealing my excavations how could I 
get the money away, supposing I found any? I have 
never tried carrying any considerable quantity of gold 
about, but I believe it is surprisingly heavy stuff. A 
sackful would probably be more than I could manage, 
and I suppose that twenty thousand sovereigns would 


74 


FOUND MONEY 


fill a good many sacks. Even if I got it transported 
to the railway station, after exhausting toil, should I 
be able to get it any farther? A traveler with eight or 
ten heavy sacks, out of which sovereigns trickle, must 
be unusual on an Irish railway and liable to attract a 
lot of unwelcome attention. I wished very much that 
I knew more about Ireland. I had a vague idea that 
bank robbery is a recognized industry there. If so I 
might be able to pass myself off as an ordinary inof¬ 
fensive brigand and get the sovereigns safe away. 
But I was not sure how to get myself up for the part. 
The Irish bank robber always seems to wear a uni¬ 
form of some kind, with the insignia of a major-gen¬ 
eral in one of the various armies which roam the 
country. I unfortunately had no uniform with me. 

All day, while the train sped smoothly to Holy- 
head, I worried myself over these details. During the 
passage to Kingstown fresh difficulties presented 
themselves. I slept badly in Dublin that night, partly 
because people kept shooting off rifles and revolvers 
in the street outside my hotel and partly because I was 
very heartily wishing that I had not undertaken to re¬ 
trieve Genevieve’s fortune for her. 

Next morning I took the earliest train there was 
from Broadstone station. It brought me to Athlone 


FOUND MONEY 


75 


about ten o'clock, but was no use to me after that. It 
went on westward into Mayo; but it was a mail train 
and had a strong sense of its own dignity. It would 
not stop at a small station like Knockcroghery, which 
is only a few miles beyond Athlone. I had to wait till 
nearly two p. m. before I got a train which con¬ 
descended to stop at Knockcroghery. I spent my time 
drearily in exploring Athlone, a town extremely well 
supplied with public-houses, churches and banks, but 
destitute of all other attractions. The public-houses 
and churches I expected. The number of banks sur¬ 
prised me. I had no idea that the Irish people were 
rich enough to keep so many banks going. I do not 
understand how they can be after supporting all their 
churches and public-houses. 

I lunched uncomfortably and then took the train 
to Knockcroghery. I was sorry, when I found out 
how short the distance was, that I had not walked 
there. 

I had no difficulty in discovering the church. It 
stood all by itself on top of a hill and was the only 
building of any sort visible from the railway station. 
I walked up to it, climbed a rusty gate to a graveyard, 
picked my way among the tombstones, and at last 
stood, precisely as Wilbred’s paper told me to stand. 


76 


FOUND MONEY 


with my back against the north wall of the tower. 
The day was fine and clear. I saw the Shannon, a 
broad, sluggish river winding between low banks a 
couple of miles to the north of me. I had no difficulty 
in making out the ruin marked on Wilbred’s map. 
But between it and the spot on which I stood— 

I expected to see a bog and some broad flat fields. 
Never was a man more surprised. I saw an aero¬ 
drome, a large wide-spread camp, huts for the men, 
garages for cars, a long line of hangars for the aero¬ 
planes. I stared in blank astonishment. The place 
was full of men and apparently humming with activ¬ 
ity. While I stood gazing an aeroplane circled above 
the camp, slid down and made a landing on the flat 
ground in front of the hangars. 

I slowly realized what had happened. Wilbred’s 
ordnance map was an old one, dating back to some 
year before the war. In those days, no doubt, Knock- 
croghery was a desolate and lonely place. Wilbred 
never imagined—no one could possibly have guessed— 
that the War Office, or whoever manages these things, 
would have chosen just this unlikely spot for an aero¬ 
drome. 

Yet there the thing was, spread out before me like 
a great map, all over the very ground under which 


FOUND MONEY 


77 


Wilbred’s sovereigns lay. I wondered if the Ogam 
stones were still there. It seemed very unlikely. En¬ 
gineers had probably broken them up and used them 
for road metal or as foundations for the great hangars. 
Could the spot where they originally stood be identi¬ 
fied ? I doubted it, and even if by some odd chance I 
found the right place and the exact site of the particu¬ 
lar stone I wanted, would these airmen allow me to go 
digging holes, perhaps just where holes might be most 
inconvenient to them: in the floor of their officers’ 
mess, or under their colonel’s bed, or in the middle of 
the workshop of their skilled mechanics? What ex¬ 
cuse could I possibly make for asking permission to 
dig up their camp? 

I cursed the memory of Wilbred. Yet the coming 
of the aerodrome was a thing which he could not pos¬ 
sibly have foreseen. I suppose he paid his last visit to 
Knockcroghery some time before the war. At that 
time the odds must have been thousands to one against 
there ever being an aerodrome, or anything else ex¬ 
cept a sheep or a bullock on that piece of land. The 
Ogam stones had stood there undisturbed for two or 
three thousand years. It was not unreasonable for 
Wilbred to suppose that they would stay there for an¬ 
other ten. 


78 


FOUND MONEY 


I do not know how long I stood staring at that 
wretched camp. In the end I was startled by a light 
cough close to me. I turned and saw an elderly clergy¬ 
man, very shabbily dressed, but with an appearance of 
dignity and benevolence. He was looking at me with 
an expression of a lightly-amused astonishment. 

“Surely,” he said, “you have come a day too soon. 
They don't expect you until to-morrow.” 

My own idea was that I had come a great many 
days too late, and I did not think it likely that any 
one expected me either the next day or any other day. 

“But perhaps,” he said, “you-’ve come, like Ahab, 
to survey the vineyard before taking possession.” 

That remark surprised me nearly as much as the 
first he made. I attempted but a feeble reply to it. 

“Vineyard,” I said. “What vineyard ?” 

“Naboth’s,” he replied. “You will excuse my sug¬ 
gesting the parallel, I’m sure. I’m a clergyman, and 
these Biblical narratives keep recurring to my mind 
as contemporary history unfolds itself. Events do re¬ 
peat themselves very curiously. Not that I should 
dream of suggesting that you have stoned any one to 
death, or that any of your enthusiastic ladies in the 
least resemble Jezebel.” 

“I haven’t,” I said, “the very remotest idea what 
you’re talking about.” 


FOUND MONEY 


79 


He waved his hand toward the aerodrome. 

“It’s yours now/’ he said, “or will be to-morrow, 
when you take formal possession. And you have 
wanted it, it and other things, for quite a long time, 
haven't you? Surely I am justified in supposing that 
you have come here to-day to gloat a little. You have 
certainly every right to exult. As the Eloquent Jose¬ 
phine observed the other day, ‘The British Empire is 
under your feet. Trample on it.' ” 

The sudden mention of the name of Josephine 
startled me. There must, of course, be thousands of 
Josephines in the world, but the only one I had ever 
heard mentioned in conversation was Genevieve's 
aunt. 

“Josephine?" I said. “Who's Josephine?" 

“Perhaps you don't recognize her greatness," he 
said. “Perhaps you even affect to ignore her exist¬ 
ence. But you can hardly do that, even if you belong 
to the other faction. Do you mind my asking you 
whether you are a Free Stater, an incorruptible Re¬ 
publican, or simply an independent soldier of for¬ 
tune?" 

I stood staring at him without speaking. It seemed 
to me that he must be a lunatic. Fortunately he was 
old and looked feeble. There was no need to regard 
him as dangerous. 


8o 


FOUND MONEY 


‘‘It’s very hard for outsiders like me/’ he said 
plaintively, “to understand the fine shades of your 
party distinctions. I don’t deny that I was once a loy¬ 
alist, and although I am now as thoroughgoing a 
patriot as any man in Ireland I still find it difficult to 
understand exactly why you are all fighting each other 
and which side any of you are on.” 

“If you are talking Irish politics,” I said, “you are 
wasting your own time and mine. I know nothing, 
absolutely nothing, about your affairs, and if possible 
I care less.” 

“Allow me,” said the elderly clergyman, “‘please 
allow me to shake the hand of the only sane man I’ve 
met for more than two years.” 

He did not wait for the permission he asked. He 
took first my right hand and then my left and shook 
them both heartily. 

“Please,” he said, “please tell me your name.” 

“John Famham,” I replied. 

I hoped that he would not recognize it as the name 
of the author of my two novels. Those books are not 
likely to commend themselves to elderly clergymen in 
country parishes. I need not have been anxious. He 
had never heard of me nor my books. 

“My name,” he said, “is Sylvestre, Canon Sylves- 


FOUND MONEY 


81 


tre, an honorable title, though the cathedral from 
which I derive it is one you have probably never heard 
of. My house, a modest rectory, stands there.” 

He pointed to a small grove of trees on the edge of 
the bog half a mile from where we stood, rather far¬ 
ther from the busy aerodrome. 

“I can not,” he went on, “offer you luxurious en¬ 
tertainment, but if a dish of eggs, a loaf of bread, yel¬ 
low butter and ripe apples appeal to you, I beg of you 
to be my guest. I do more than beg, I insist that you 
do me the honor of sharing my simple evening meal 
with me. I can not allow you to deprive me of the 
pleasure of talking for an hour to a man who knows 
nothing about Irish politics, and cares even less. Cares 
even less,” he murmured thoughtfully; “how wonder¬ 
ful, how beautiful!” 

The Reverend Canon Sylvestre, if not a violent 
lunatic, was undoubtedly eccentric, eccentric enough to 
be on the very verge of insanity. But I accepted his 
invitation. I saw no other prospect of getting any¬ 
thing to eat in Knockcroghery unless I begged the hos¬ 
pitality of the officers’ mess in the aerodrome. I was 
unwilling to go all the way back to Athlone, to the 
hotel in which I had lunched, and there was something 
very attractive about eggs, apples, yellow butter and a 


82 


FOUND MONEY 


loaf of bread. Even if I had not been beginning to 
feel hungry I should have wished to share a meal like 
that. Besides, I really wanted to know what Canon 
Sylvestre meant by comparing me to Ahab, and why 
the aerodrome—he was certainly thinking about the 
aerodrome—reminded him of Naboth’s vineyard. My 
curiosity was also excited about Josephine. Could she 
possibly be Genevieve’s aunt? Ireland is a small 
country. There can not possibly be many Josephines 
in it, and Genevieve had described her aunt as a lady 
infected with patriotism and given to making speeches. 

I bowed my acceptance of the invitation. The 
Reverend Canon and I descended the hill together and 
took our way along a muddy lane to the trees among 
Which the rectory stood. 

It was a larger house than I expected; far too large 
for the needs of an elderly bachelor, and Canon Syl¬ 
vestre had told me that he was not married. There 
must have been ten or twelve bedrooms on the two 
upper floors and quite a range of sitting-rooms down¬ 
stairs. 

“Afternoon tea,” said Canon Sylvestre, “is a meal 
which I fear that my housekeeper does not understand. 
Very likely she does not approve of it, but you must 
allow me to give you a glass of milk, since we have 


FOUND MONEY 


83 


still some hours before supper. After you have re¬ 
freshed yourself we can go together to the railway 
station and bring back your bag. I take it for granted 
that you have left your bag there, and I insist that 
you spend the night with me. Indeed,” he went on, 
“you will do me a great favor if you accept my invi¬ 
tation. I rarely have the chance of a talk with an edu¬ 
cated man; not for many years with one who takes no 
interest in Irish politics.” 


CHAPTER VII 


W E dined together in the little bare parlor of the 
rectory. The meal was just what my host 
promised it would be, except that a large dish of pota¬ 
toes appeared along with the eggs. They were excel¬ 
lent potatoes, white and mealy, with brown skins that 
curled backward. We mashed them with three¬ 
pronged iron forks, piling the skins on the table be¬ 
side our plates. We cracked the eggs and poured their 
yolks and whites over the potatoes. We added large 
nuggets of yellow butter. We made a luscious mix¬ 
ture, sprinkling it with salt and pepper. Then we ate 
the mash with spoons. 

Afterward there was a loaf of home-baked soda 
bread, a square of honey made by Canon Sylvestre’s 
bees, and then the apples. 

While we ate my host talked. He told me about 
the hens which laid the eggs, the houses in which they 
were lodged, the food on which he fed them. He dis¬ 
coursed at length on the peculiar merits of Black Min- 
orcas. He knew these fowls so intimately that it 
84 


FOUND MONEY 


85 


scarcely surprised me to hear him speaking- of them 
individually by their names. He was just as much 
interested in potatoes. If I could have remembered 
all he said about Arran Chiefs and Irish Queens I 
might have passed myself off as an expert at any agri¬ 
cultural society. When we got to the cows which pro¬ 
vided the yellow butter, Canon Sylvestre displayed a 
personal affection for the animals which was quite 
touching. And whatever he talked about, hens, pota¬ 
toes, bees or cows, he made nice little quotations from 
obscure parts of the Bible. Every now and then he in¬ 
terrupted his Georgies with an apologetic inquiry. 

“And you really take no interest in Irish politics ?” 

When I assured him that I did not he murmured, 
“How wonderful, how beautiful!” and went on talking 
about the hens, the cows, the bees and the apple 
orchard. Yet as the meal went on I began to think 
that Canon Sylvestre was not altogether unwilling to 
talk politics. I never met an Irishman yet for whom 
politics were not the chief interest in life, and Canon 
Sylvestre, for all his admiration of my indifference, 
was no exception to the rule. He still said “wonder¬ 
ful” and “beautiful” when I assured him that I did not 
care whether Ireland set up a military dictator or a 
system of soviets. But I noticed a wistful disappoint- 


86 


FOUND MONEY 


ment in his tone. I think he began to want to talk 
about Ahab again, and about the Eloquent Josephine, 
and Naboth's aerodrome. For my own part, though 
really indifferent to the progress of Irish affairs, I 
very much wanted to know what had happened at 
Knockcroghery, what Canon Sylvestre thought was 
going to happen, and whom he had mistaken me for 
when we met on the hill outside the church. My 
chance came when we had peeled and eaten our last 
apples. 

Canon Sylvestre invited me to go with him to his 
study, which was, he said, a much more comfortable 
room than the dining-room where we had our meal. 
It could not well have been less comfortable, for the 
dining-room was scantily furnished and depressingly 
bleak. The study was quite different, though I should 
not have called it comfortable. There was a battered 
writing-table in front of the window with an interest¬ 
ing old chair in front of it. There was a square patch 
of carpet on the floor. Two dilapidated arm-chairs 
stood in front of an open hearth, on which a fire of 
turf glowed very pleasantly. Canon Sylvestre, like the 
patriarchs of old, may have been rich in beasts and 
feathered fowls, but he was apparently quite a poor 
man otherwise, and any money he ever possessed 


FOUND MONEY 87 

seemed to have been spent on books. The walls of the 
room were lined with them. 

He excused himself for going away a few minutes 
after we entered the study. I was left alone, and occu¬ 
pied myself in looking at his books. There were a few 
commentaries and volumes of sermons, such books as 
one might expect to find in a country parson*s library. 
But Canon Sylvestre’s main interest was not theology. 
He had a large and fine collection of books dealing 
with Irish antiquities. The names of the books and 
their authors were strange to me, but there were treat¬ 
ises on every branch of archeological study. I noticed 
with some interest that there were half a dozen vol¬ 
umes on Ogam stones. 

The rest of the shelves were filled with rows and 
rows of reports of religious societies. I had no idea 
before that there were so many missionary and chari¬ 
table societies in the world, or that they spent so much 
money in printing accounts of their doings. Some of 
these were fat volumes, decently bound in cloth. Most 
of them were slim paper-covered pamphlets. I did not 
open any of them. The only books in the whole collec¬ 
tion which attracted me in the least were those on 
Ogam stones, and even they did not interest me much. 

I had been alone for about a quarter of an hour 


88 


FOUND MONEY 


when Canon Sylvestre came back with a tray in his 
hands. On it was a kettle which he set down beside 
the fire, a couple of tumblers, some lemons, lump 
sugar, a large bowl, and a bottle. 

He set himself to mix what I judged by the smell 
to be whisky punch. 

“I am,” he said, “a man of simple tastes, living, 
as you have seen, a simple life. But I am no Puritan. 
I count it a form of irreverent arrogance to despise or 
condemn the good gifts with which God has endowed 
His children even here on earth.” 

He was pouring whisky into the bowl as he spoke, 
lavishly, unstintingly. I considered the present price 
of whisky, and the fact that Canon Sylvestre was evi¬ 
dently a poor man. I wondered at the generous flow 
of the precious liquid. 

“I am besides,” he said, “one of those who joyfully 
recognize that out of evil comes good; and that while, 
as pessimists assert, every rose has its thorn, it is just 
as true to say, as I prefer to say, that every thorn is 
attached to the stem, not perhaps always of a rose, but 
at worst of a blackberry or a fragrant whin blossom. 
Thus the present lamentable condition of this country 
—but I forgot. It wearies you to hear about Irish 
affairs.” 


FOUND MONEY 


“Not always,” I said. “Not after dinner. Not be¬ 
side a pleasant fire. I can enjoy talk on almost any 
subject if I am allowed to smoke and am provided 
with something- to drink.” 

“How wonderful,” said Canon Sylvestre, “and 
how beautiful.” 

This time he repeated his formula with conviction. 
He certainly wanted to tell me something about Ire¬ 
land, and I was quite ready to listen to him. He 
fetched his kettle and poured hot water into the bowl. 
A pleasantly scented steam arose from it, incense to 
the god of innocent self-indulgence. 

“Even out of the lamentable confusion of the coun¬ 
try comes some advantage,” said Canon Sylvestre. 
“We are able to obtain this excellent whisky at a price 
that would be impossible if there were any settled and 
stable government.” 

He dipped a small silver ladle into his bowl and 
stirred thoughtfully. Then he filled a glass and 
handed it to me. I sipped, and realized how excellent 
a thing is poteen whisky punch. 

“It’s almost worth while,” I said, “to live through 
a revolution in order to obtain this whisky at a price 
which a man of moderate means can afford to pay.” 

“Two shillings a bottle,” said Canon Sylvestre. 


90 


FOUND MONEY 


“Two shillings, and of course an honorable undertak¬ 
ing not to advertise the names of those who sell.” 

He rose and pulled two tattered curtains across the 
window. Then he piled fresh turf on the fire, build¬ 
ing the glowing coals into a heap and surrounding 
them with sods of turf set upright on their ends. He 
built with some skill a big round tower of brown turf. 
The flames from the glowing center licked round the 
walls of the structure and climbed up. The room was 
imperfectly lit by an inefficient paraffin lamp which 
stood on the table. The flickering flames cast shad¬ 
ows of their own making behind us and shone on the 
gentle benevolent face of my host. He drank very lit¬ 
tle of his own punch, not more than a sip or two; but 
he constantly refilled my glass. While I drank and 
smoked he talked, talked with the delight of a garrul¬ 
ous man who had been for a long time without a lis¬ 
tener. 

He told me how the English Government had 
established an aerodrome in Knockcroghery in 1916, 
how the thing had spread, like a skin disease, across 
the land, extending to the very edge of the bog, cover¬ 
ing all the firm ground between the church and the 
river. Afterward had come the other war—what 
Irishmen call the war—in which the victorious legions 


FOUND MONEY 


9i 

of England had been so battered by the Irish troops 
that they had at last confessed defeat and agreed to 
withdraw from the country. 

“To-morrow,” said Canon Sylvestre, “these Eng¬ 
lish soldiers, who have been as locusts in number, will 
disappear with their chariots and their horsemen. 
How these Biblical phrases recur to the mind. I should 
have said with their motor-cars and aeroplanes. To¬ 
morrow the forces of the Irish Free State will march 
in and take possession. ‘Have they not sped? Have 
they not divided the spoil? To every man a maiden 
or two. To Sisera—’ But there I am wrong. It is 
not the men who take possession of the maidens. It is 
the maidens—though perhaps maidens is not the right 
word for these ladies. It suggests youth, innocence, 
timidity, the fragrance of springtime; whereas the 
Eloquent Josephine— But no doubt I am wearying 
you with this talk of our affairs.” 

“You’re not. I’m anxious to hear about the Elo¬ 
quent Josephine. But tell me who you thought I was 
when you met me outside your church this afternoon.” 

“I took you for the commander of one of the 
armies which is coming here,” said Canon Sylvestre, 
‘■of the Free State forces, or of the Republican forces, 
or of one of those bands of irregulars which—” 


92 


FOUND MONEY 


“Which keep the price of whisky down,” I said. 

“Yes,” said Canon Sylvestre. “From that point of 
view it is really fortunate that these various bodies of 
troops impede one another’s activities. To-morrow, 
for instance, the Free State Army enters into posses¬ 
sion of this aerodrome. Next day or the day after the 
Republican Army will dispossess them. A few days 
later another force, perhaps anonymous, will—” 

“And you took me for a captain of one of these 
bands of freebooters,” I said. 

“I was mistaken about you,” he replied, “but it was 
a natural mistake, perhaps an inevitable mistake. I 
have no wish to pry into your affairs. I am not so 
inhospitable as to ply my guest with questions which 
he may very well be disinclined to answer, but I ask 
myself—I can scarcely help asking myself this ques¬ 
tion: If Mr. John Farnham is not a brigadier-gen¬ 
eral, a colonel-commandant or a deputy-adjutant-gen¬ 
eral from the headquarters of any army, what was he 
doing this afternoon on Hangman’s Hill ?” 

“Hangman’s Hill?” 

“That is the meaning of Knockcroghery,” said 
Canon Sylvestre. “No doubt the name was justified 
long ago, though I do not know when or by whom. It 
may be justified again.” 


FOUND MONEY 


93 


He made another effort to fill my glass with his 
whisky punch. When I resisted successfully he put 
the ladle back into the bowl and sat silent in his chair, 
staring into the fire. I knew for what he was wait¬ 
ing. He had not asked me directly who I was or 
what I was doing in Knockcroghery, but he evidently 
wanted some information and thought he had a right 
to it. So he had. He had taken me into his house and 
fed me. He had gone very near intoxicating me with 
whisky punch. He had told me a great deal about 
Knockcroghery, and the aerodrome, and the various 
armies which were likely to possess it. The very least 
I ought to do was to give him some information in re¬ 
turn. The trouble was that I did not know what on 
earth to say to him. I was certainly not justified in 
confiding to a total stranger, even a benevolent old 
parson, the secret of Genevieve’s fortune. I was quite 
prepared to lie, if I could have thought of a plausible 
lie to tell. There was no use my saying I was a jour¬ 
nalist. No journalist would have shown himself so 
ignorant of Irish affairs as I was, or confessed com¬ 
plete lack of interest in all that was going on. There 
was no use pretending to be a government inspector. 
No government in Ireland was at that time in a posi¬ 
tion to inspect anything. All that the best of them 


94 


FOUND MONEY 


could do was to avoid being inspected themselves. I 
tried to think of something to say, while Canon Syl- 
vestre stared into the fire and pretended not to care 
whether I spoke or not. 

At last I adopted the same plan which had worked 
so well with George. I told the truth, though not the 
whole of it. 

“I happened to hear/’ I said, “that there are some 
Ogam stones in this neighborhood.” 

Canon Sylvestre brightened into interest at once. 
Next to Irish politics, his chief pleasure in life was cer¬ 
tainly Irish antiquities. 

“There are,” he said. “There are Ogam stones 
here, but I had no idea they were famous.” 

“I heard of them in Brittany.” 

“I am immensely surprised,” said Canon Sylves¬ 
tre. “I should have supposed—I should certainly have 
said with confidence before you spoke, that no one 
had ever heard of the Knockcroghery Ogam stones.” 

“I not only heard of them,” I said, “I came all the 
way from Brittany to investigate them.” 

“You shall see them to-morrow,” said Canon Syl¬ 
vestre. “I'll show them to you myself.” 

I do not know why men ever tell lies. The truth is 
a far better and simpler way of deceiving anybody. 


FOUND MONEY 95 

It is also far safer, as long as you are careful not to 
tell too much of it. 

There I was seated face to face with an old clergy¬ 
man who was filled with curiosity about my business 
in Knockcroghery. I could scarcely, without actual 
rudeness, have refused to give him some account of 
what I was doing and intended to do. If I had made 
up my mind to maintain a discourteous silence about 
my affairs I should have excited his suspicions to such 
a degree that he would have followed me about and 
spied on my doings. He was a simple-minded man, 
but not simple-minded enough to believe that I was a 
journalist or a government inspector. No one would 
have believed such things of me or credited any other 
lie that I could possibly have invented. But by telling 
the simple truth I had satisfied Canon Sylvestre’s per¬ 
fectly natural curiosity and allayed any suspicions that 
might have risen in his mind. I had gained all that, 
and also, just because I had boldly spoken the truth, 
one of my difficulties was removed. I had wondered 
exactly where those stones were and how I was to find 
them in the middle of a large aerodrome. Here was 
Canon Sylvestre ready to lead me straight to them. 
No doubt he was acquainted with the officers of the 
Air Force. He was perhaps their chaplain and had 


FOUND MONEY 


96 

the right of walking in and out of their camp at will. 
Nothing could possibly have suited me better than to 
visit the stones for the first time in his company. 

I thanked him for his offer and accepted it with 
real gratitude. 

‘Til show them to you to-night if you like,” he said, 
“though I’m afraid it’s too dark to see much. Still, 
if you’re really anxious to take a look at them at once 
we might take a stable lantern with us.” 

But I was not in such a very great hurry to see the 
stones as to be ready to walk a mile or so across a bog 
on a dark October night. I was very comfortable 
where I was, in Canon Sylvestre’s old chair, with the 
firelight blinking in my face. I could not have done 
anything with the stones that night if I had gone to see 
them. A stable lantern would scarcely have given light 
enough for the identification of a blurred inscription. 

“Oh, no,” I said, “I’m quite content to wait till to¬ 
morrow.” 

“Perhaps,” said Canon Sylvestre, “you’d like me 
to read you a little paper which I prepared for our little 
Archeological Society. It was never read to the mem¬ 
bers, because of late years we have been unable to 
meet, but it is printed in our last volume of Trans - 
actions. If you are interested in the stones—” 


FOUND MONEY 


97 


I was; but not in that way. I should much rather 
have heard what my host had to tell me about the Elo¬ 
quent Josephine. But he had already risen from his 
chair, and was groping on an upper shelf for the book 
he wanted. 

“I fear,” he said, “that to many this subject might 
be dull; but I make no apology to an enthusiastic 
archeologist like you.” 

He had every right to call me that. I had told 
him that I came all the way from Brittany to inspect 
the stones. He could not, I should think, have met 
with an example of such enthusiasm even among 
members of his local Archeological Society. He 
found the book and sat down again in his chair. 

“My treatment of the subject,” he said, “is doubt¬ 
less inadequate, but the subject itself will make amends 
for my deficiencies.” 

Then he began to read. It was a long paper and 
extraordinarily dull. I had the greatest possible diffi¬ 
culty in keeping my eyes open till he had finished. 
When he had closed the book I rose at once to save 
myself from being called on for intelligent criticism. 

“If you will allow me,” I said, “I think I shall go 
to bed. You have given me much, very much to think 
about.” 


98 


FOUND MONEY 


He had. 

“To-morrow,” said Canon Sylvestre, “you shall see 
the stones and judge for yourself whether my estimate 
of their value is correct.” 

I intended, if I could, to test Wilbred’s estimate of 
their value next day. It interested me much more 
than Canon Sylvestre’s. 


CHAPTER VIII 


W E breakfasted next morning at eight o’clock. 

It was a simple meal and we did not spend long 
over it. Perhaps I hurried a little, for I was anxious 
to get down to the Ogam stones as soon as I could. 
Canon Sylvestre was not willing to start at once. 

“I can not help thinking,” he said, “that if you 
wish to make a minute study of these stones—” 

“I do,” I replied, “minute and prolonged. I want 
the whole day for my work.” 

That again was true. It would certainly take me 
all day, possibly more than one day to deal with those 
stones as I wanted to. 

“In that case,” said Canon Sylvestre, “you will 
save time in the end by glancing through Profes¬ 
sor Vandervelte’s masterly monograph on Ogam in¬ 
scriptions. I ought to have shown you the book last 
night, instead of reading my own paper to you. But 
if you will come into my study now—” 

“Thanks,” I said hurriedly. “Thanks, but you will 
understand me when I say that I should rather make 
99 


100 


FOUND MONEY 


my investigations quite independently, uninfluenced 
by Professor Vandervelte.” 

That, once more, was quite true. Nothing that the 
professor had written was likely to be the slightest help 
to me. An hour spent over his masterly monograph 
might have betrayed me to Canon Sylvester as an im¬ 
postor. I could keep up my character as an enthusi¬ 
astic antiquary so long as I did not go beyond vague 
generalities; but if I had to spend an hour discussing 
a monograph, I should certainly give myself away. 

Canon Sylvestre sighed. 

“I am at your disposal/’ he said, “and as you wish 
it, you shall see the stones at once. But I hoped you 
might have spent the morning with me over my books. 
It is seldom that I get the chance of showing them to 
any one who is really interested in such studies. A 
meeting with a brother antiquary is a rare event in 
my life.” 

He rose from the table with evident regret, and led 
me through a long glazed door to the lawn behind the 
house. I noticed with some surprise that he took 
neither a hat nor a walking-stick with him. But the 
morning was fine, and I was content to follow his ex¬ 
ample. 

We passed through an iron gate built into a wall. 


FOUND MONEY 


IOI 


and entered a large, untidy garden. In the very center 
of it was what looked to me from a distance like a 
group of sundials. Canon Sylvestre led me over to it. 

“The Ogam stones,” he said. 

I was astonished, horrified, dumfounded. 

“But,” I said, “but—but surely—I thought—I 
understood that the stones were in the middle of what 
is now an aerodrome.” 

“They were,” said Canon Sylvestre. “You are 
perfectly right. They were in the middle of the camp, 
but I moved them.” 

“Good heavens!” I said. “Why on earth did you 
do that?” 

I realized at once that my chance of finding 
Genevieve’s fortune had almost disappeared. Wil- 
bred’s detailed and explicit directions were useless. 
The stones had stood somewhere on the line between 
the church tower and the ruin by the river; but that 
line was at least two miles long. And the stones had 
formed a group. I did not suppose that they were all 
massed together; they must have been scattered over 
half an acre or so of ground. It was only if I could 
fix the position of one particular stone that I had any 
real hope of finding the money. Now that they had all 
been moved I might spend years in digging. I might 


102 


FOUND MONEY 


employ an army of men to help me, and in the end I 
should get nothing. 

I turned on Canon Sylvestre and, I fear, spoke 
angrily. 

“What an appalling thing!” I said. “What on 
earth induced you to do it?” 

The old gentleman was dreadfully distressed. 

“I hope,” he said, “I sincerely hope that you do not 
think I have been guilty of an act of vandalism.” 

He had been guilty of a great deal worse than any 
vandalism. He would, in my opinion, have done far 
less mischief if he had moved every monument from 
the Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey and sold 
them to wealthy women in Chicago to be used as draw¬ 
ing-room ornaments. 

“Before condemning me,” pleaded Canon Sylves¬ 
tre, “before utterly condemning me, pray consider the 
circumstances in which I was placed. Soldiers came 
here, engineers, excellent men, every one of them I 
am sure, men with many virtues, but uninterested in 
the monuments of a remote past. They surveyed the 
ground. They marked out the boundaries of the aero¬ 
drome. They planned roads. They set an army of 
men at work to make the roads. There were few 
stones here and they wanted what they called metal 


FOUND MONEY 103 

for the foundations of their roads. I discovered that 
they were about to break up the Ogam stones. I 
begged them to desist. I appealed to their officer. I 
went from him to another of higher rank, and from 
him to another still. At last I reached a general. He 
was a man of small reverence for antiquity, but he had 
a good heart. He was moved by my tears. Why 
should I conceal the fact that I wept ? ‘Padre/ he said, 
and I remember his exact words, ‘Padre, I have a great 
respect for the Church though I seldom go into one; 
and if you want those stones you may have them. Only 
I can’t have the damned things standing about in the 
camp for the men to trip over. If I give them to you 
you’ll have to clear them out of this/ Mr. Farnham, 
what could I do ? What would you have done ? Per¬ 
haps I was wrong, but I moved those stones. I went 
day after day with a cart which I hired. Very rever¬ 
ently and with the utmost care I raised the stones one 
by one and brought them to my garden. Here at least, 
so I thought, they will be safe.” 

He looked at me appealingly and I had no heart to 
be angry with him any more. His hand sought mine, 
and I knew that he was waiting, like a penitent child, 
for a word of forgiveness or absolution. I could not 
refuse to comfort this simple, gentle old clergyman. 


104 


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“You did right, Canon Sylvestre,” I said. “Un¬ 
questionably you did right.” 

He cheered up at once and wrung my hand 
heartily. 

“Thanks,” he said. “Thank you a thousand times. 
Your approval means much to me, more perhaps than 
you can easily guess. My heart is light again. I shall 
go and feed my chickens. You, Mr. Farnham, will no 
doubt wish to make your study of the stones. You 
will be undisturbed. At ten o’clock I shall return to 
you, and then if you like we can go down to the camp 
and watch the arrival of the Free State Troops. I 
confess to some curiosity about the conduct of the cere¬ 
mony of the surrender. It is not very often in history 
that an English force has given up a stronghold.” 

It was small pleasure to me to study those stones 
where they stood in the middle of a kitchen garden. 
But I had little choice. If I refused to examine them 
because they were removed from their place I should 
have deeply grieved Canon Sylvestre, and that I could 
not bear to do. Besides, if I did not examine the stones 
I should either have had to help to feed the chickens 
or spend an hour over the rare archeological books. 

When Canon Sylvestre left me I took from my 
pocket Wilbred’s sketch of the important stone and its 


FOUND MONEY 


105 


inscription. I went from one to the other of what now 
seemed to me the tombstones of a whole family of 
hopes. After peering at half a dozen scratched in¬ 
scriptions I came on the one I sought. Wilbred had 
done his work carefully and accurately. The sketch 
was extremely good. Every crack and chip appeared 
exactly as Wilbred had set it down. He must have 
taken an enormous amount of trouble in tattooing the 
thing on his leg, and the inscription was quite cor¬ 
rectly copied. Not a line was misplaced, lengthened 
or shortened. The very angles of their slopes were 
accurate. If only the stones had been left where they 
were I should have had no trouble in identifying the 
one which covered the treasure. 

As I stood and stared at them a faint hope re¬ 
turned to me. It was just possible that Canon Syl- 
vestre had made a note of the place from which he 
took each stone. Antiquaries often attach enormous 
importance to matters which strike other people as 
trivial. I felt sure that he would know in a general 
way whereabouts the group of stones had been. But 
would he have made a map of the exact position of 
each of them? It seemed almost beyond hope. Yet 
he had written a paper about them for a learned 
archeological society. He had taken much trouble 


io6 


FOUND MONEY 


about that paper and copied out every single inscrip¬ 
tion, though not so accurately as Wilbred copied his. 
He might very well be able to tell me where my stone 
came from. It was the largest of the lot. Even if he 
did not tell me that, it would be something to know 
the original site of the whole group. I might have to 
dig up an acre of ground, but it was worth while dig¬ 
ging a good deal to get twenty thousand pounds. 
Many a man has spent a long life digging and not 
earned a quarter of that sum in the end. 

At a quarter to ten Canon Sylvestre came back to 
the garden. Fie approached me with jaunty steps, 
waving his hand joyously as he came. 

“Mr. Famham, ,, said Canon Sylvestre, “I’ve just 
thought of a way in which I may atone for my act of 
vandalism. Yes, I will call it vandalism, though you 
were kind enough to accept my excuses as sufficient. 
But I have thought of a plan, a plan of which I am 
sure you will approve, by which my action—my un¬ 
fortunate and most regrettable action—may be re¬ 
deemed from the reproach of sacrilege. I see, I really 
think I see a way out of our difficulty.” 

If he saw a way out of my difficulty I was per¬ 
fectly ready to forgive him any amount of sacrilege. I 
hoped that it had occurred to him as desirable and pos- 


FOUND MONEY 


107 

sible, to put the stones back again where he got 
them. 

“I feel,” he said, “I feel a horror of disrespect for 
these venerable relics of antiquity. We do not know 
what they are, but we may allow our imaginations to 
play on them. This”—he pointed to one of the 
stones—“may be the memorial of some great hero, a 
savior of his people, a pioneer of civilization. Here 
perhaps,” he passed on to the very stone which Wil- 
bred had sketched, “is an inscription commemorating 
the beauty and virtue of a queen. It is horrible that 
such things should be desecrated, and I feel as I know 
you are feeling”—at this point he took my hand and 
held it to show me how much he honored me for a 
feeling I never had— “that such memorials should not 
be left to the chance courtesies of my gardener, or 
since I can not afford to keep a gardener, to such treat¬ 
ment as might be given them by the casual day laborer 
whom I hire to dig. He might sit on one of them to 
eat his dinner. He might strike matches on another 
to light his pipe. He might subject them to all kinds 
of unimaginable indignities. I did wrong to bring them 
here. If I had stopped to think I should have acted oth¬ 
erwise. Even now it is not too late. Suppose that you 
and I, men of piety and good will both of us—” 


FOUND MONEY 


108 

Hope grew strong in me. Canon Sylvestre was 
surely going to propose to put the stones back again. 
If so he must know where he took them from, and I 
might be able to fix the position of the one I wanted. 
But that was not the idea in the good man’s mind. 

“Suppose,” he said, “that we take them up to the 
graveyard and put them there.” 

He looked wistfully into my eyes as he made his 
proposal, seeking some sign of approval. What he 
saw disappointed him. I could not help betraying my 
feelings. I had not the smallest wish to spend my 
time carting great stones about the country. Unless 
I could get them back to their original places, it did 
not matter to me where they were. I did not care a 
pin if Canon Sylvestre’s hired laborer made a habit of 
spitting on them. 

“There’s plenty of room for them in the church¬ 
yard,” said Canon Sylvestre appealingly. “I have 
very few parishioners, and none of them ever dies, so 
there is plenty of room. We could give the stones an 
honored and spacious home.” 

Even that consideration did not move me. 

“And it is consecrated ground,” he said. “That is 
a consideration, isn’t it? Strictly speaking, of course, 
I ought not to permit the interment of unbaptized per- 


FOUND MONEY 


109 


sons in consecrated ground. And these heroes of 
whom we have been speaking, were unquestionably 
pagan. Still it is not their bones which we propose 
to move, merely their memorial stones. I wonder— 
the case seems to me almost unprecedented—I wonder 
what the bishop would say. I wonder what my own 
attitude ought to be. As an antiquary, I feel—and 
yet as a Christian priest I can not but be aware—” 

He was evidently inclined to wander off into a 
theological discussion, even more barren and remote 
from any reality than most theological discussions. I 
cut him short. 

“Couldn’t we manage,” I said, “to put them back 
again where you got them?” 

“That,” said Canon Sylvestre, “would certainly be 
the ideal solution. Then once more the epitaph of the 
hero would stand above his bones, and the record of 
the great queen’s beauty would be joined to the dust 
of the body which has perished. Who knows what 
spiritual unions, what intimacies between the two 
worlds of past and present—?” 

“Do you know,” I said, “exactly where you took 
them from?” 

“At this moment,” said Canon Sylvestre, “the site 
on' which the stones originally stood is occupied by the 


IIO 


FOUND MONEY 


men’s dining-room, the cook-house and a patch of 
ground behind them used chiefly as a dumping-place 
for empty tins.” 

That was so much to the good. Canon Sylvestre 
knew where he had taken the stones from. There 
could be no difficulty in locating the dining-room, the 
cook-house and the tin-strewed space behind them. Of 
course I could not do much unless I got permission to 
pull down the dining-room and cook-house, and that 
while the English Army remained in possession would 
be impossible to get. But the English Army was go¬ 
ing away that very day. Would their Irish successors 
want to keep the camp? Might it not be possible to 
buy from them some of the buildings in it? 

“Do you think,” I said, “that the Free State Army 
will want a men’s dining-room and cook-house?” 

“Perhaps not. Very likely not.” 

A whimsical smile fluttered on his lips. 

“To tell you the truth I do not think there are 
many men in that army, rank and file, private soldiers. 
I have an idea that every man is an officer. Most of 
them are colonels or generals. And if there are no 
men there can not be any need of a men’s dining-room 
or of a cook-house for it. How fortunate it is that the 
officers’ mess was not built where the stones stood. 


FOUND MONEY 


hi 


We should certainly not have been able to get it. I 
am by no means sure that we can do anything, but we 
can at all events try. I shall make a point of seeing 
the commanding officer of the Free State Army to-day. 
I shall ask him, I shall explain our pious purpose. If 
he refuses, there remains the commander of the Re¬ 
publican Forces, who in the course of the next few 
days will certainly dispossess the Free State officer. 
If he, too, fails to see the reasonableness of our re¬ 
quest, there is still the possibility of appeal to—” 

“If armies are going to march and counter-march 
in that way,” I said, “and one government is going to 
succeed another every twenty-four hours, we might 
manage to take possession of those buildings without 
getting any formal permission from any one. After 
all, nobody has any real right to them, and in the 
general game of grab it is to the public interest that 
decent people like you and me should get something.” 


CHAPTER IX 


T HE evacuation of the camp by the British troops 
and its occupation by the Sinn Fein forces was 
not by any means an impressive ceremony. Canon 
Sylvestre and I watched it, at first from a distance, 
afterward, when we felt sure there was going to be no 
shooting or rioting, from near at hand. 

The greater part of the English force had already 
departed when the Irish troops arrived. Large motor- 
lorries had been roaming over the roads all night, 
loaded with portable property. Cars and smaller lor¬ 
ries had begun earlier in the morning taking away 
loads of men and officers. By eleven o’clock there was 
only one English officer left, a captain, one sergeant- 
major, a couple of non-commissioned officers and 
about twenty men. 

The captain and the sergeant-major preserved 
some sort of appearance of dignity. The men re¬ 
garded the whole proceedings as an elaborate and novel 
joke. They giggled like schoolgirls, when the Irish, 
about fifty of them, marched into the camp. In defi- 


112 


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113 

ance of all decency and discipline they greeted their 
successors with snatches of song and light banter. 
They had to laugh at their own jokes and take up 
their own choruses, for the Irish were quite solemn 
and apparently a little bewildered. I sympathized 
with their feeling. It is disconcerting to be patted on 
the back in perfect amity by men whom you have been 
trying to shoot for several years, to be assured that 
the girls of County Roscommon are “sporting little 
dears” when you know that the heart of every Irish¬ 
woman is, like an inverted omelette surprise, ice-cold 
outside but glowing with patriotism within. It is dif¬ 
ficult to reply with an ancient Irish melody to men 
who beg you in a jigging tune to take them “where 
the booze is stronger.” The climax, the final outrage 
of all dignity, was reached when the Englishmen, 
crowded at last into their motor-cars, gave three cheers 
for “the Shinners.” 

“A contraction, a familiar rendering of the word 
Sinn Fein,” Canon Sylvestre explained to me, “Sinn 
Fein, a name at which the world grows pale! And 
these profane Tommies turn it into ‘Shinners/ They 
actually cheer it. No wonder the English are detested 
all over the world by any nation which has any sense 
of dignity.” 


FOUND MONEY 


1 14 

The sergeant-major, though far more dignified 
than his men, yielded to the holiday spirit. He singled 
out a red-headed Celt who looked as if he might be 
a non-commissioned officer, though he was probably 
a general. He offered him a cigarette. He told him, 
in friendly confidence, that there were two holes in the 
roof of the bath-house which ought to be mended and 
that the only hammock chair left in the sergeants’ mess 
was groggy in the legs. When the moment of parting 
came he pressed a whole packet of Gold Flake cigar¬ 
ettes into the hand of his new friend. 

“Take them,” he said. “Plenty more where these 
come from. They’ll remind you of good old blighty.” 

I suppose the last thing in the world the Irishman 
wanted to be reminded of was the existence of Eng¬ 
land, but he took the cigarettes. A reasonably good 
Virginian cigarette was becoming a rarity in Ireland 
then. No true-hearted man would smoke anything 
but Irish tobacco. Such are the results of high patriot¬ 
ism. So the spirit tramples on the desires of the flesh. 

The two officers met a little apart from their men 
and saluted each other gravely. Then there was a 
short and awkward silence while they looked at each 
other, apparently wondering what they had better do 
next. The Englishman broke the silence first. 


FOUND MONEY 


ii 5 

“Hope you’ll find everything O. K.,” he said. 

“Oh, rather,” said the Irishman. “Top hole, I’m 
sure. I don’t expect to be long here anyway.” 

“The geyser of the bath in the C.O.’s hut is liable 
to explode occasionally,” said the Englishman. “I 
thought I’d better warn you.” 

The Irish commander thanked him, looked round 
the camp, took a cursory glance at the bog beyond, 
and said that the place seemed to have been neglected 
by Providence—“A God-forsaken hole” was his exact 
phrase. The Englishman said there were snipe in the 
bog, but no golf links. After that they both said “So 
long!” saluted each other again, and the Englishman 
went away. 

That was all that happened. Nobody hauled down 
a flag or hoisted a new one. No bands played a tune 
of any kind. No bugles blew or drums rolled. Not 
a single word of command was given on either side. 
Canon Sylvestre was deeply disappointed. So was I. 
But I was also interested, particularly in the Irish 
officer. The way he spoke surprised me. His accent 
and phrases alike reminded me of dozens of excellent 
young subalterns and captains whom I used to meet 
during the other war, in mess-rooms in France. I had 
expected—I do not know that I had exactly expected 


n6 


FOUND MONEY 


anything; but I had a vague idea that the command¬ 
ers of this new Irish Army were more pontifical. 

My surprise increased when the officer came over 
to where we stood. His men had scattered about the 
camp and were exploring it. He saluted Canon Syl- 
vestre. 

“Good morning, Padre,” he said. “You’ve come 
down to see the last of the good old British Empire.” 

“I hope,” said Canon Sylvestre, “that you don’t 
mind our walking into your camp. This is my friend, 
Mr. Farnham.” He introduced me with a bow. 

“My name,” said the officer, “is Hardy. I was in 
the Royal West Corks during the war, temporary cap¬ 
tain.” 

That accounted for his accent and his familiar col¬ 
loquialisms. 

“I was a gunner myself,” I said, “but I was de¬ 
mobbed long ago.” 

“Lucky man,” said Hardy. “Soldiering is a rotten 
job, anyhow. I’d have given it up long ago if I could 
have got anything else to do. But I was at a loose end 
when they fired me out, and I felt a bit sore when they 
made me refund my last six months’ pay.” 

“That’s a little way they have,” I said. “They 
dragged three months’ out of me.” 


FOUND MONEY 


ii 7 

“So when these Free State blighters came along, 
and offered to make me a brigadier-general I naturally 
caught on. Still, it is a rotten job.” 

He turned to Canon Sylvestre. 

“Care to see over the camp, Padre? I suppose I 
ought to take a stroll round.” 

Canon Sylvestre had probably seen as much of the 
camp as he wanted to while he acted as chaplain to the 
English troops, but I managed to convey to him a hint 
that he should accept Hardy’s invitation. I thought I 
might get a chance of inspecting the men’s dining¬ 
room and the ground on which it stood. 

Hardy was most friendly and chatted pleasantly 
as we walked along. 

“I hope you’ll make any use of the camp you like,” 
he said. “As long as Pm here you’ll always be wel¬ 
come, and if there’s anything you want in the way of 
military stores you’ve only got to ask.” 

We reached a shed which was half-full of barbed 
wire, neatly coiled and quite new. 

“Would that be any use to you?” said Hardy. 
“There’s tons of it here, and I shan’t want it. It 
might come in useful to you for fencing.” 

He seemed to be a very generous young man and 
to have taken a liking to Canon Sylvestre. 


n8 


FOUND MONEY 


“Or a stove,” he said. “A camp like this is al¬ 
ways full of stoves, and a good stove is a jolly useful 
thing. If you want one, Padre, you’ve only got to 
say so.” 

If he was really prepared to give things away as 
freely as he offered them there seemed no reason why 
we should not at once become the owners of the men’s 
dining-room and the adjacent cook-house. I nudged 
Canon Sylvestre, trying to suggest to him that he 
should ask for a few buildings or a grant of land. Un¬ 
fortunately he failed to catch my meaning. 

“No use leaving the things here,” Hardy went on. 
“The damned Republicans will come along in a couple 
of days and take anything you leave. I’m a Free 
Stater myself. I told you that, didn’t I ?” 

Canon Sylvestre said something about the ratifica¬ 
tion of the Treaty and the advantages of a settled gov¬ 
ernment. 

“I don’t mind much about the Treaty,” said Hardy, 
“but the Free State Johnnies pay up pretty regularly, 
much better than the other lot. They’d pay, too, if 
they could; but the trouble with them is that they 
generally haven’t got it. Of course, now and then 
they make a scoop, but it’s difficult to keep going on 
what you loot from banks.” 


FOUND MONEY 


119 

It seemed to me a pity to let our conversation drift 
away into the barren region of politics when we might 
be arranging to take over the men’s dining-room from 
Hardy. 

“I don’t know,” I said, “whether you’re willing to 
part with any of the camp buildings, at a reasonable 
price, of course.” 

“Oh, you needn’t bother about paying,” said 
Hardy. “Everybody loots in this country. If you 
really want a shed or two—” 

Again I nudged Canon Sylvestre, and again he 
failed to rise to his opportunity. I had to speak for 
him. “The padre,” I said, “hardly likes to ask for it, 
but what he really wants is the men’s dining-room.” 

“Take it,” said Hardy. “Take it away with you at 
once if you like. That’s it, I suppose.” 

We were standing in front of the building at the 
moment. Hardy looked at it thoughtfully. 

“It’s a bit too big for keeping bicycles in,” he said, 
“but if you have a car it would do for a garage, or,” 
he evidently thought he had hit on Canon Sylvestre’s 
idea, “it would make an excellent parochial hall. All 
padres want parochial halls. Well, I’m jolly glad to 
be in a position to be able to supply you with a really 
good one.” 


120 


FOUND MONEY 


It seemed to me that fortune was coming to us with 
both hands full of gifts. Canon Sylvestre had nothing 
to do but say “thank you,” and the thing was ours. 
Then while he was taking off the roof and hammering 
at the walls I could dig inside and find what I wanted. 
We walked into the men’s dining-room and found it 
an immense hall of a place. Hardy surveyed it with 
immense satisfaction, and explained how the tables, no 
longer wanted for eating off, could be used to make a 
platform. 

“And if there’s a piano in the place, Padre,” he 
said, “I’ll give it to you.” 

To my utter disgust Canon Sylvestre deliberately 
refused this splendid offer. 

“But I don’t want a parish hall,” he said. “The 
fact is, I’ve only fifteen parishioners, and a building 
like that would be totally useless to me. What I should 
really like—” 

“Name it,” said Hardy. “Whatever it is you shall 
have it.” 

“If you would give me permission to return some 
stones, Ogam stones, to their original position in the 
camp, I should be most grateful.” 

Hardy sat on one of the dining-tables smoking a 
cigarette and swinging his legs, while Canon Sylvestre 


FOUND MONEY 


121 


told the whole story of the Ogam stones. Up to a cer¬ 
tain point I think he believed it. The old clergyman, 
venerable and obviously quite unworldly, was just the 
sort of man who might be interested in such stones 
and might think he’d done something wrong in mov¬ 
ing them. But when Canon Sylvestre went on to say 
that I had come all the way from Brittany to investi¬ 
gate the stones, Hardy became skeptical and looked at 
me in a way I did not like. The old canon was most 
generous. He gave me all the credit for the pious wish 
to restore the stones. 

That was too much for Hardy’s powers of belief. 
I do not know what he thought I wanted, but he was 
sure that I had some end of my own in view and had 
been deceiving an innocent old clergyman, telling him 
a story that no sensible man would believe. 

I was very well aware of what Hardy was think¬ 
ing, and stood there miserable, afraid to lift my head 
or meet his eyes. I bored holes with my stick in the 
hard earth floor. I dug my heels into it. I was con¬ 
scious all the time, while I feared to look at Hardy, 
that Wilbred’s treasure might be a few inches under 
the very spot on which I stood. 

Hardy went on eying me. I could feel that he did 
not like granting Canon Sylvestre’s request without 


122 


FOUND MONEY 


understanding what lay behind it. Yet he could not 
very well refuse. After offering to allow us to take 
anything we liked out of the camp, it would be absurd 
to deny us the pleasure of bringing back something 
which had been there before. 

“Of course, Padre,” he said, “you can put up any 
stones you like. In fact, if you want to remove your 
entire graveyard here, coffins and all, I shan’t mind.” 

Canon Sylvestre entered into another long explana¬ 
tion. I felt acutely uncomfortable. He could not tell 
Hardy what I really wanted to do because he did not 
know; but he might say something which would set 
Hardy’s mind working toward the truth. Hardy was 
not by any means a fool. I could see that. And I was 
afraid that Canon Sylvestre might repeat something I 
had said. I did not remember very clearly what I had 
said to him. He was such an easy man to deceive that 
I had taken very little trouble about how I had talked 
to him. 

Fortunately we were interrupted. While Canon 
Sylvestre was still rambling on about the hero king 
and the beautiful queen whose biographies were in¬ 
scribed on the Ogam stones there was a loud hooting 
of a motor-horn just outside the building in which we 
stood. 


FOUND MONEY 


123 


“Damn!” said Hardy. “Excuse my swearing, but 
damn. Who’d have thought that those infernal Re¬ 
publicans would have been after me so soon ? I knew 
they’d come, of course. I knew they’d take over this 
camp from me. But I did think they’d let me have 
one night in peace. Now I shall have to clear out.” 

It seemed to me surprising that Hardy, a compe¬ 
tent officer with fifty men under his command, should 
surrender the post he held without some sort of strug¬ 
gle. He had been looking at me with suspicion ever 
since he heard the story of the Ogam stones. I felt I 
owed it to him to say something nasty when I could. 

“I suppose,” I said, “that it wouldn’t occur to you 
to put up a fight before surrendering.” 

Hardy drew himself up stiffly. 

“It is essential to the welfare of Ireland,” he said, 
“that the unity of the army should be preserved, and 
that internecine strife between brothers—” 

Then his dignity broke down and he looked at me 
with a whimsical smile. “Besides,” he said, “these 
little boys of mine wouldn’t fight. That’s what dis¬ 
tinguishes the Irish Army from every other in the 
world. It never did fight and never will. Of course, 
the Republican fellows wouldn’t fight either. But they 
bluff better than we do.” 


124 


FOUND MONEY 


The motor-horn went on hooting angrily outside. 

“I suppose I’d better go to them,” said Hardy. 
“If I don’t, some fool may start shooting with a re¬ 
volver. You two had better stay here. There’s no 
use mixing yourselves up in an unpleasant wrangle.” 

But wrangles rather interest me. I followed Hardy 
as he went to the door. Canon Sylvestre followed me, 
smiling with mild benignity. 


CHAPTER X 


A T the door Hardy stopped abruptly and turned 
to me with a frown. 

“These damned women/’ he said. “They’re the 
curse of the country.” 

I had heard vague rumors of the doings of Ire¬ 
land’s more enthusiastic ladies, and gathered that they 
outwent even the most ferocious men in patriotic en¬ 
ergy. Canon Sylvestre, I remembered, had men¬ 
tioned with respect “the Eloquent Josephine.” 

I had never had the chance of asking him for par¬ 
ticulars of her career; but when Hardy told me that I 
was in the presence of some of the sisterhood I was 
naturally eager to have a look at them. 

I pushed past Hardy while he stood growling in 
the doorway and saw a battered Ford car. On the 
seat beside the driver were a couple of suit-cases. In 
the back part of the car were my sister Lucy and Gene¬ 
vieve. I gaped with astonishment. Genevieve caught 
sight of me at once and jumped out of the car. 

“Oh, there you are,” she said, “and we’ve had such 

125 


126 


FOUND MONEY 


a chase after you. I call it mean of you to sneak away 
from London without me, when you knew I particu¬ 
larly wanted to go with you.” 

Lucy spoke rather wearily, from the car. 

“Genevieve insisted on coming, so of course I had 
to come with her.” 

“Wasn’t it sweet of her?” said Genevieve. “And 
she didn’t want to a bit.” 

“Jack has a sore throat,” said Lucy, “and I ought 
not to have left him. But Genevieve insisted on 
starting, so—” 

Jack is Lucy’s youngest boy. Her affection for 
Genevieve must be very strong and her sense of pro¬ 
priety absolutely overwhelming if she left Jack when 
he had a sore throat. 

“We ran away,” said Genevieve, “without telling 
Mr. Stubbington, and when the silly old train wouldn’t 
go past Athlone, we took a motor, and here we are.” 

Hardy and Canon Sylvestre were standing in the 
door of the men’s dining-room. Both of them, Hardy 
in particular, evidently wanted some explanation of 
the arrival of the two ladies. I had none to give. The 
best I could do was to make formal introductions, 
naming everybody carefully, and giving Hardy his 
full title of Brigadier-General. 


FOUND MONEY 


127 


“And now, Johnny,” said Lucy, “take me to what¬ 
ever hotel you’re staying at. We’ve had an awful 
journey and I want a bath badly.” 

Hardy stepped forward politely. 

“If you and Miss Wilbred,” he said, “will make 
use of the colonel’s quarters in this camp they are quite 
at your disposal. I believe there is a bath there, and—” 

But I did not want that. Hardy had been looking 
at Genevieve with eager curiosity ever since he was in¬ 
troduced to her. I did not know what might come out 
if she began to talk to him. 

“They can’t go there,” I said. “I distinctly heard 
the English officer tell you that the geyser connected 
with that bath is constantly exploding. I won't have 
my sister blown up.” 

Then Canon Sylvestre came forward with his hat 
in his hands, bowing with gentle dignity. 

“1 hesitate to invite ladies to my house,” he said. 
“I live a very simple life, far from the luxuries as well 
as the turmoil of the great world. But my rectory is 
close at hand and if you will so far honor me as to go 
there I can at least offer you hot water and afterward 
—I am almost ashamed; but Mr. Farnham stayed with 
me last night. He will assure you that my eggs are 
fresh, though I have little else to offer.” 


128 


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“If there’s any difficulty about the commissariat,” 
said Hardy, “I may be able to help.” 

Six or seven rather lean sheep were picking at the 
blades of grass which grew among the heather on the 
bog. Beyond them in a stony field, one of Canon Syl- 
vestre’s cows grazed. Hardy pointed to them. 

“I can always commandeer a sheep,” he said, “or 
a cow if you prefer beef.” 

Lucy is a practised housekeeper and has had the 
fear of George Stubbington constantly present in her 
mind for years. She shrank from the thought of 
slaughtering a sheep or a cow and eating it immedi¬ 
ately. 

“Wouldn’t the meat be rather tough?” she said. 

Genevieve, I suppose, felt that she was being ig¬ 
nored. She ran up to Hardy. 

“Oh,” she said, “do shoot a sheep. This is splen¬ 
did. Almost as good as the desert island we planned, 
only I don’t think General Hardy looks the least like a 
savage.” 

Neither Canon Sylvestre nor Hardy understood 
the allusion to the desert island. They looked at me 
inquiringly. I could not very well satisfy them with a 
complete explanation. I fell back on Canon Sylvestre’s 
housekeeping and said that his eggs were certainly 


FOUND MONEY 


129 


fresh, his butter yellow and his honey extraordinarily 
sweet. He repeated his invitation and included Hardy 
in it. He is a most hospitable man and must thor¬ 
oughly understand hens. It was late October and yet 
he seemed to have an unlimited supply of eggs. 

Lucy managed to squeeze Canon Sylvestre into the 
Ford car between herself and Genevieve. They drove 
off to the rectory, a distance of about two miles by 
road. Hardy and I followed them by a short-cut 
across the bog. 

It struck me that he was thoughtful. He was cer¬ 
tainly silent during the first part of our walk. When 
he did speak it was to ask me how Genevieve spelled her 
surname. I had no objection to telling him that, 
though I wondered why he wanted to know. Later 
he asked me another question which surprised me. 

“Do you happen to know whether her father ever 
lived in Athlone?” 

“No,” I said. “I don’t know that. I met him in 
Brittany. All I know about Miss Wilbred’s family 
is that she has an aunt who lives in Dublin.” 

“Not the Eloquent Josephine, surely?” said Hardy. 

“I don’t know anything about her eloquence,” I 
said. “But Miss Wilbred speaks of her as Aunt 
Josephine. Do you know her?” 


130 


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“Know her! Good lord!” 

I did not know whether that meant that he knew 
her and wished he did not, or did not know her and 
was longing for an introduction. 

“I wish you'd tell me something about her,” I said. 
“Canon Sylvestre mentioned her to me and I intended 
to ask him about her but I forgot.” 

Hardy seemed to hesitate. I tried to make his way 
easy for him. 

“You needn't mind what you say,” I said. “Miss 
Wilbred doesn't like her aunt at all, so I shan’t mind 
hearing her abused.” 

“The Eloquent Josephine,” said Hardy, “is prob¬ 
ably the only woman in the world who can go on mak¬ 
ing a speech for fourteen hours at a stretch without 
even stopping for a cup of tea.” 

“She deserves her name,” I said, “thoroughly de¬ 
serves it. I didn't think even a prime minister could 
have done that.” 

“I've never heard the whole of one of her 
speeches,” said Hardy, “but men who have tell me—” 

“Are there any men who have ?” 

“Lots,” he said. “She's greatly admired, and they 
tell me that she keeps up to concert pitch the whole 
time. It isn't a case of purple patches here and there 


FOUND MONEY 


*3i 

with her. It’s one continuous stormy sunset from the 
word go right up to the finish. Poetry, you know, 
and not quotations either. Original stuff, absolutely.” 

“Vers libre, I suppose.” 

“I dare say,” said Hardy. “Pm not an expert in 
poetry myself, but I’m told it’s top hole of its kind.” 

“I don’t at all wonder Genevieve couldn’t live with 
her,” I said. “She must be most exhausting.” 

Hardy said nothing more for a while. We had 
left the camp and were picking our way across the bog. 
I doubt whether even Aunt Josephine could speak 
much while jumping from one quaking tussock to an¬ 
other. When we had climbed a loose stone wall into 
one of Canon Sylvestre’s fields, Hardy spoke again. 

“Queer thing that girl being her niece,” he said. 

“Oh, I don’t know that it’s so very queer,” I said. 
“Lots of people have eccentric aunts. I had one my¬ 
self who always went about in ten petticoats, summer 
and winter, just the same sort of fondness for excess 
from which your friend Josephine seems to suffer.” 

We climbed another wall and found ourselves quite 
near the rectory. Hardy stopped and lit a cigarette. 
As he threw away the match he asked me another 
question about Genevieve. “By the way, did you say 
her father’s Christian name was Quartus ?” 


132 


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He spoke in a most casual tone as if he did not 
care whether I answered or not. Indeed, he rather 
overdid his carelessness. I began to feel vaguely sus¬ 
picious, though I did not know what to suspect. 

I had not, to the best of my recollection, mentioned 
the Christian name of Genevieve’s father. But there 
was no use saying that it was not Quartus, and, so far 
as I could see, no harm in admitting that it was. 

“Yes,” I said. “Quartus. And the girl’s name is 
Genevieve. They didn’t call her after her aunt.” 

“Quartus Wilbred,” said Hardy. “That must have 
been the man I knew years ago in Athlone. I think 
I remember hearing that he and the Eloquent Jose¬ 
phine were related. Let me see now. It was before 
the war of course. It must have been 1911, or 12, I 
should think.” 

“Mr. Wilbred,” I said, “lived abroad somewhere 
for the last ten years.” 

“I dare say,” said Hardy. “Anyhow, he’d say he’d 
been abroad. If he’s the man I mean he certainly 
lived a very retired life.” 

I wanted to ask Hardy what he meant by that; but 
I did not get a chance. We were crossing the rectory 
lawn and Canon Sylvestre came toddling out to meet 
us. 


FOUND MONEY 


133 


“I can’t tell you,” he said, “what a pleasure it is 
to me to welcome two ladies to my house. If I’d only 
known a little sooner that they were coming I’d have 
sent in to Athlone for a cake and some chocolates, 
and perhaps a few jam tarts. I should have liked— 
However, it’s too late to think of that. I have left 
them in the care of Mrs. Hegarty. Mrs. Hegarty is 
my housekeeper, a most admirable woman, but—” 

The good man’s face became a little troubled. He 
was evidently doubtful about Mrs. Hegarty. So was 
I. She was not by any means a young woman and 
might very well object to a lot of extra work. 

“Mrs. Hegarty,” said the Canon, “is not accustomed 
to ladies. But come, I want to gather a few flowers. 
Mrs. Stubbington and Miss Wilbred will soon be 
down-stairs again. I should like to have some flowers 
arranged in the drawing-room to greet them. I al¬ 
ways think that flowers convey better than anything 
else a sense of welcome to our guests. Come with 
me.” 

He took us into the garden and we wandered 
round it, picking Michaelmas daisies as we went. 
There were a great many of them, but there was very 
little else. When we had gathered three large bunches. 
Canon Sylvestre led us to the Ogam stones and gave a 


FOUND MONEY 


134 

lecture on them for Hardy's benefit. His language 
was highly poetic and I have no doubt that the sub¬ 
stance of what he said was immensely learned. 

Hardy examined the stones with some care for a 
few minutes while Canon Sylvestre talked. Then he 
lost interest in them. I do not wonder. They were 
thoroughly dull stones. Except for the unintelligible 
scratches on them you might have picked up stones 
like them by hundreds anywhere in the world. For a 
few minutes more Hardy listened to Canon Sylvestre’s 
lecture. Perhaps he hoped to get some hint which 
would help him to understand why I wanted to move 
the stones back to the dining-room in the camp. If he 
expected that he was disappointed. Canon Sylvestre 
was engaged in an attempt to reconstruct the lives of 
the men who cut the inscriptions on the stones. He in¬ 
sisted that they possessed a beautiful kind of civiliza¬ 
tion. 

Hardy took the first chance he got of interrupting 
the lecture. He was not actually rude, but he was 
firm in switching the conversation away from antiqui¬ 
ties. He began to talk about the present condition of 
Ireland. This is a subject which bores me even more 
than antiquities do. Canon Sylvestre told me several 
times that it bored him. But that was a little affecta- 


FOUND MONEY 


135 


tion of his. He was really interested and excited in 
what Hardy said. I slipped away unnoticed. I 
wanted to have a talk with Lucy, and if possible with 
Genevieve before they came down to Canon Sylves- 
tre’s feast of eggs and apples. It seemed to me that I 
ought to warn them to be very careful what they said. 
Hardy was already puzzled about me and perhaps sus¬ 
picious. He did not believe that I wanted to put those 
stones back in their places. He would have liked to 
know what I did want, and it was most undesirable 
that he should know. He was an officer of the Irish 
Free State, and I could not help thinking that his gov¬ 
ernment would be uncommonly glad to lay hands on 
twenty thousand pounds if it could. That would be 
bad enough, but I was not even sure that they would 
get the money if Hardy discovered our secret. He 
struck me as a man who might regard a buried treas¬ 
ure as a private windfall and take the view—a per¬ 
fectly correct one—that he would make a better use of 
the money than any government was likely to. 

Before we went to bed that night Canon Sylvestre 
gave me an account of his talk with Hardy. It ceased 
to be political shortly after I left. Indeed it ceased to 
be a conversation, for Canon Sylvestre did nothing but 
listen. Hardy talked at length on a subject which is 


FOUND MONEY 


136 

deeply interesting to every man, his own life. He had 
more excuse than most of us have for being autobio¬ 
graphical. He really had rather a curious career. At 
the age of sixteen he became a bank clerk. He was 
shifted about from one provincial town to another for 
three years, getting more and more sick of his job. 
He saw nothing before him but years of intolerable 
dullness supported on a miserably insufficient salary. 
Then came 1914, and Hardy saw his chance. 

He applied for a commission. His bank directors, 
anxious to pose as patriotic men, agreed to his going, 
and promised to keep his job open for him. He be¬ 
came a second-lieutenant in the sixth battalion of the 
West Corks. Soldiering suited him a great deal bet¬ 
ter than bookkeeping. And when peace came Hardy 
did not in the least want to be demobilized. He hung 
on to several minor posts in the army until the econo¬ 
my outcry became too strong for the War Office, and 
people like Hardy were sacrificed wholesale. His final 
dismissal—accompanied by a request that he would 
pay back his last six months’ salary—came just as the 
Irish Free State was trying to establish itself. It 
wanted soldiers. Hardy wanted a job and hated the 
idea of going back to his bank. He became at a single 
bound a brigadier-general, and found himself in com- 


FOUND MONEY 


137 


mand of what was called a flying column of fifty 
rather nice boys who went about taking over the bar¬ 
racks and camp which the English evacuated. That 
was how he came to Knockcroghery. 


CHAPTER XI 


FTER tapping at half a dozen doors in the ram- 



bling upper story of Canon Sylvestre’s house, I 
discovered Lucy. She invited me to enter, and I 
found her combing her hair. 

“Johnny,” she said, “I want you to send off a tele¬ 
gram for me to George.” 

“There’s no telegraph office,” I said, “anywhere in 
this neighborhood. They’ve all been broken up by the 
Irish army.” 

“But I must send a telegram. I want to know how 
my dear boys are. I told you that Jack was threat¬ 
ened with a sore throat when I left, and I must hear 
how he is. It may be something infectious, and I’d be 
perfectly miserable if I thought my darlings were ill 
without their mother to look after them.” 

“You needn’t worry,” I said. “George will wire 
to you if anything goes wrong.” 

Lucy laid down her comb, turned from the look¬ 
ing-glass and faced me. 

“He can’t,” she said. “That’s what worrying me. 


138 


FOUND MONEY 


139 

George can’t telegraph because he hasn’t the slightest 
idea where I am.” 

“Do you mean to say,” I said, “that you’ve come 
off here to Knockcroghery without telling George 
where you were going to?” 

That was precisely what she had done. Goaded on 
by Genevieve, who has no sense of responsibility or 
duty, Lucy had packed a suit-case, slipped off in a taxi 
before George got home from his office, caught the 
night mail at Euston, and reached Athlone early next 
day. There she and Genevieve had been hung up, just 
as I had been by the want of a train to take them on. 
But they had refused to be delayed. They hired the 
dilapidated Ford in which I saw them and drove out 
to Knockcroghery. 

“It was for your sake I did it, Johnny,” she said, 
after finishing her story. “I couldn’t have Genevieve 
going off all by herself to stay with you in an Irish 
hotel. Of course I know you mean to marry her; but 
even so—” 

“I’ve told you before,” I said, “that I’ve never 
even thought of marrying her, or wouldn’t have 
thought of it if you hadn’t put it into my head.” 

“That makes it all the worse,” said Lucy, “but of 
course you don’t mean it. Anyhow, considering what 


140 


FOUND MONEY 


I’ve been through for your sake you might send off 
that telegram for me. Think of poor George.” 

“You ought to have thought of George before you 
started,” I said. “I didn’t want you here. As a mat¬ 
ter of fact, you’re making my position very difficult, 
and if I telegraph to George at all it will be to ask him 
to give you orders to go straight home again, you and 
Genevieve.” 

I spoke in a very severe tone and Lucy appeared to 
be cowed. 

“Johnny dear,” she said, “don’t be angry. You 
know I’d never have thought of coming here if Gene¬ 
vieve hadn’t made me.” 

I believed that; but it did not make things any 
easier for me. Hardy was already suspicious about 
something. In the course of the evening either Lucy 
or Genevieve was sure to give me away badly. Lucy 
would allow it to be discovered that I cared nothing 
for Ogam stones or any other antiquities. Genevieve 
would probably talk gaily about the treasure hunt. I 
should have the greatest difficulty in explaining away 
what they said and would probably tangle myself up 
in a web of lies. 

“Genevieve,” I said, “is a perfect little devil.” 

“Hush!” said Lucy. “She’s next door and she’ll 
hear you.” 


FOUND MONEY 


141 

I hope she did not hear exactly what I said. She 
certainly caught the sound of my voice, for she came 
through the door which connects the two rooms. She 
was very far from being completely dressed, but that 
is not the kind of thing which embarrasses her in the 
least. 

“I thought it was you,” she said, “I do hope you 
haven't begun digging yet.” 

“No,” I said. “I haven't.” 

I frowned severely, and nodded toward Lucy. 
When I left London she knew nothing about the bur¬ 
ied gold, and I thought it much better that she should 
not be told. 

“Oh, that's all right,” said Genevieve cheerfully. 
“I told her all about it in the train, and she's just as 
keen about it as I am.” 

I could not believe that. After being married for 
six years to George Stubbington, Lucy must have lost 
all taste for adventure. I began to suspect that Jack's 
sore throat was only an excuse for her telegram and 
that what she really wanted was to get George over 
to Knockcroghery to keep us all in the strict path of 
respectability. 

“I'm so glad you haven't done any digging yet,” 
said Genevieve. “I was quite afraid you might have 
found everything before I came.” 


142 


FOUND MONEY 


“So far as I can judge at present,” I said, “it’s ex¬ 
tremely unlikely that we shall ever get anything at all.” 

“Why not ?” she asked. “Surely you can find the 
stones.” 

“I’ve found the stones all right,” I said, “but 
they’ve been moved from the place your father left 
them.” 

I told her the whole story, interrupted now and 
then by Lucy, who kept urging her to go back to her 
room and put on the rest of her clothes. She would 
not do that until I had finished. Then she said: 

“I’ll just slip on a skirt and a blouse, and then we’ll 
go straight down to that camp and dig. If you haven’t 
got a spade I’m sure the old clergyman will lend us 
one. He looks a perfect darling.” 

The want of a spade was not the only difficulty in 
our way. I tried to explain that we could not dig up 
the foundations of a military dining-room without 
getting permission from the commanding officer and 
that we could not even ask for permission without giv¬ 
ing some reason for wanting to dig. 

“Brigadier-General Hardy,” I said, “is a stern man 
with a strong sense of duty, and he—” 

Genevieve danced into her own room while I was 
speaking. I raised my voice and explained the inten- 


FOUND MONEY 


143 


sity of Hardy’s sense of duty. Genevieve must have 
heard me; but what I said produced no effect what¬ 
ever on her mind. She was back again before I had 
finished, buttoning the front of her blouse. She swept 
my objections aside, saying: “Don’t fret about the gen¬ 
eral. I’ll manage him.” 

I looked at Lucy for support. She ought to have 
been able to see as well as I did that it would not do 
to have Genevieve “managing” Hardy. I strongly 
objected to her attempting to do anything of the sort. 
I objected all the more because I felt certain that she 
would succeed if she tried. I had no particular dislike 
of Hardy, but I hated the idea of his making love to 
Genevieve, and that is certainly what he would do if 
Genevieve “managed” him. He would regard the 
management as an invitation. 

“You go off and borrow the spade,” said Gene¬ 
vieve, “and I’ll settle things with the general.” 

Then Lucy came to my help feebly. 

“I want Johnny to send off a telegram for me,” 
she said. “You won’t mind waiting till he’s sent it, 
will you, Genevieve ? It’s to George.” 

“If you send him a telegram,” said Genevieve, 
“he’ll know where we are and come after us. But per¬ 
haps you want that.” 


144 


FOUND MONEY 


“I don’t/ 5 I said. “The only thing I can think of 
which would add to the confusion and difficulty of our 
present position would be the arrival of George.” 

“But I must know how poor Jack is,” said Lucy, 
“and if I don’t send my address, how can I hear?” 

“If Mr. Stubbington comes,” said Genevieve, “he’ll 
take us all straight back to London.” 

Considering the very short time she had known 
him Genevieve had got a wonderfully clear idea of 
George’s character and probable actions. Faced with 
a story of treasure buried under the men’s dining¬ 
room in an aerodrome, recently taken over by the 
army of the Irish Free State, he would certainly want 
to go back to London by the next train. 

“If he comes,” I said, “—and he will when he gets 
that telegram—he’ll bring Wilkinson and Parke with 
him, and then where will you be, Lucy? If you get 
off with an order for the restitution of conjugal rights 
you’ll be lucky.” 

“I don’t care,” said Lucy. “I must hear how my 
darling boys are. They may all be dying of scarlatina. 
I know it begins with a sore throat.” 

That argument might have gone on for a long 
time. It was interrupted by the ringing of a bell some¬ 
where in the lower part of the house. 


FOUND MONEY 


145 


“Lunch, I expect,” I said. “Let’s come and eat it.” 

The sound of the bell grew louder. Whoever was 
ringing it was coming up-stairs. It became louder 
still as the ringer came along the passage. It rose in 
a crescendo outside the door of the room in which we 
were. Lucy dug a few last pins into her hair. I opened 
the door. 

“We’re coming,” I said apologetically. “We’re all 
coming as fast as we can.” 

“Your dinners is waiting for you.” It was Mrs. 
Hegarty, the housekeeper, who spoke. “And the mas¬ 
ter will be mad if he’s kept waiting till the potatoes 
is cold.” 

I do not believe that Canon Sylvestre would lose 
his temper over a cold potato, or indeed over anything 
else. But I realized that his housekeeper had lost hers. 
It was hard to blame her. After living a quiet life for 
years with nothing to do but attend to the simple 
wants of Canon Sylvestre, she was suddenly plunged 
into a vortex of hospitality which involved her in an 
enormous amount of extra work. I had been an un¬ 
expected guest the day before. Now, two strange 
ladies who required unprecedented quantities of hot 
water, every drop of which had to be boiled in kettles 
in an underground kitchen and then carried up six 


146 


FOUND MONEY 


flights of stairs. Canon Sylvestre’s rectory was a 
large house, but it was entirely wanting in modem 
conveniences of every kind. A hundred years ago 
when servants could be hired for a couple of pounds 
a year and labor was of no more account than silver in 
the reign of King Solomon, Canon Sylvestre’s prede¬ 
cessors may have lived comfortably enough in this 
great house, particularly as people of that generation 
did not take baths. For Canon Sylvestre the problem 
was much more difficult. Mrs. Hegarty demanded 
twenty-five pounds a year, and he could not afford 
any assistant maidens. Lucy’s arrival and her de¬ 
mand for a bath were likely to lead up to a domestic 
crisis. That was plain, for Mrs. Hegarty went on 
ringing her bell even after I had done my best to 
pacify her. 

Lucy gave two pats to Genevieve’s hair and then 
slipped three handsome rings, George’s gifts, on her 
own fingers. 

“If you won’t send my telegram for me, Johnny,” 
she said, ‘Tm sure Mr. Hardy will.” 

“He certainly won’t,” I said, “if you call him Mr. 
Hardy. He’s a brigadier-general. You must be a 
little tactful if you expect to get things done for you.” 

Lucy had reached the door of the room; but when 


FOUND MONEY 


147 


I said that, she turned, went back to her dressing- 
table and daubed a quantity of powder on her nose. 

“My dear Johnny,” she said, “you really ought 
to give me credit for knowing how to manage men. 
I’m not a fool, and Eve been married for six years.” 

I suppose we are all liable to underestimate the 
attractiveness of our own sisters. But Lucy’s six years 
of married life seemed to me merely to have widened 
her out a little, and I did not think that a whole boxful 
of powder would have helped her to manage Hardy. 
But there was no use saying that to her. 

“Come along,” I said kindly. “We’ll all feel much 
better when we’ve had something to eat. But for 
goodness’ sake be careful what you say to General 
Hardy. I’ve no objection to your managing him, 
Lucy, and Genevieve can manage him too if she likes. 
But don’t give him the slightest hint of what’s brought 
us here. If he finds that out we’ll probably never see 
a penny of the money.” 

We marched down-stairs behind Mrs. Hegarty, 
who was still ringing her bell. Outside the dining¬ 
room door Genevieve stopped abruptly and caught me 
by the arm. 

“Do you think,” she said, in an excited whisper, 
“that this Hardy man is after our treasure?” 


148 


FOUND MONEY 


“I’m sure he'd like to be,” I said. 

“How glorious!” said Genevieve, “and I was so 
afraid that the whole thing was going to be wretchedly 
tame. But if he’s on our trail with a band of murder¬ 
ous ruffians—” 

“Hush! Genevieve,” I said. “Do be careful what 
you’re saying.” 

It was all very well to call Hardy’s men a murder 
gang in 1920 or even in the early part of 1921. Emi¬ 
nent politicians and other equally reliable people used 
that language then. But the most bigoted Tories are 
now speaking of these same men as “loyal troops,” 
and Hardy might very well resent the out-of-date 
language which Genevieve used. 

“All the same,” said Genevieve, “he’s after our 
treasure, isn’t he ? So of course we shall have a fight.” 

“Not if I can possibly help it,” I said. “Fighting’s 
the very last thing I mean to try. What we’ve got 
to do is outwit him.” 

“But you have a revolver, haven’t you? Just in 
case we don’t outwit him.” 

“No, I haven’t,” I said. “And if I had, it would 
have been taken from me at Holyhead. No respect¬ 
able man is allowed to have firearms in Ireland now¬ 
adays.” 


FOUND MONEY 


149 

Then I took her by the arm and led her into the 
dining-room. 

Our meal was a great success. Canon Sylvestre 
beamed on us all and told a long story about a Kerry 
cow. Hardy enjoyed himself, for both ladies made 
themselves very agreeable to him: Lucy, because she 
wanted him to send off her telegram for her; Gene¬ 
vieve, because she had an idea that flattery was a 
good way to begin with any one whom you intended to 
outwit in the end. I fancy that Hardy had not en¬ 
joyed the society of ladies very often lately. He was 
a little awkward at first and very eager to please. He 
offered to send off a despatch rider into Athlone with 
Lucy’s telegram, and he would have promised Gene¬ 
vieve anything she liked to ask. Later on, when we 
reached the bread and honey course of the meal, he 
completely recovered his self-possession, and I saw 
with alarm that he was trying to get information 
from Genevieve. 

He was not very successful. He began with her 
Aunt Josephine, whom he claimed to know fairly well. 
Genevieve snubbed him pitilessly, and absolutely re¬ 
fused to talk about her aunt. She must have had a 
horrible time with that lady, though, as well as I 
could understand, the speech-making stage of her ca- 


FOUND MONEY 


150 

reer had scarcely begun when Genevieve left her. The 
only one at the table who had a good word for poor 
Josephine was Canon Sylvestre. She had been a par¬ 
ishioner of his years before when he held a small par¬ 
ish somewhere in County Meath. He regarded her 
with respect on account of what he described as “her 
great ability and her original mind. ,, 

When he stopped talking about her, Hardy had 
another try at Genevieve. He asked her the question 
he had asked me, whether her father had ever lived in 
Athlone. Genevieve could not tell him, for she really 
did not know where her father had lived. She had 
been under the care of the outrageous Josephine from 
her babyhood, and although she remembered visits 
from her father, she did not know where he came 
from. Hardy did not believe what she said. He be¬ 
came quite convinced that her father was the Quartus 
Wilbred he had known, and that Genevieve was try¬ 
ing to conceal the fact from him. 

I was puzzled by Hardy’s insistence. The ques¬ 
tion of Wilbred’s place of residence ten or twelve years 
ago did not seem to me to be important. I could not 
see why Hardy insisted on talking about it. It seemed 
very likely that he was right and that Wilbred had 
lived in Athlone. That would account for his choos- 


FOUND MONEY 151 

ing Knockcroghery as a hiding-place for his property. 
It is only a few miles from Athlone. 

“I always regarded your father as a very clever 
man,” said Hardy, “one of the cleverest men in his 
own way that I ever met.” 

“There must be great ability in the family,” said 
Canon Sylvestre. “Miss Josephine Wilbred has a 
mind quite out of the common. Her politics seem to 
me deplorable, but I don't attempt to deny or mini¬ 
mize her brains.” 

“I’m sure,” said Lucy, “that Genevieve is quite as 
clever as either of them.” 

Hardy was still full of unsatisfied curiosity. He 
did not venture to ask directly what had brought Lucy 
and Genevieve to Knockcroghery, but he kept edging 
around the subject and making remarks which ought 
to have led to some statement of their business. 
Thanks to Canon Sylvestre’s interest in the future of 
the Ogam stones, we were saved the necessity of in¬ 
venting excuses for being where we were. Every time 
Hardy cornered us the dear old clergyman started a 
fresh discussion about the irreverence of removing an¬ 
cient landmarks and the necessity of putting them back 
again. He made several speeches of thanks to me for 
pointing out to him his duty in the matter. 


152 


FOUND MONEY 


When dinner, or whatever the meal ought to be 
called, was over, Hardy offered to take us all for a 
drive in a motor-car. Lucy’s hireling Ford had long 
ago returned to Athlone, and I did not know where 
Hardy meant to get a car. It turned out that the 
British airmen had left behind them two large Sun¬ 
beams and an immense stock of petrol. I suppose they 
wanted to start the Free State on its career with dig¬ 
nity and comfort. 

“A couple of my men are ex-chauffeurs and drive 
pretty well,” said Hardy, “and I shall be happy to place 
one of the cars at your disposal.” He turned to Lucy 
as he spoke. “Or if you will allow me to accompany 
you we can all go for a joy-ride this afternoon, and to¬ 
morrow you can use the car in any way you like.” 

“Oh, thanks,” said Genevieve. “Let’s drive round 
to the camp again. I’m longing to explore it thor¬ 
oughly.” 

I do not know what Hardy knew or guessed about 
our business, but he jumped at the idea of taking us 
down to the camp that afternoon. I felt singularly un¬ 
comfortable. Genevieve might very well begin ex¬ 
ploring the camp in a way which would strike Hardy 
as curious. Canon Sylvestre made things worse with 
a perfectly absurd proposal. 


FOUND MONEY 


153 


“If we're to have a car,” he said, “couldn't we take 
down a couple of the Ogam stones with us and set 
them up again in their places ? I should like to do that 
and so would Mr. Farnham.” 

Genevieve clapped her hands. 

“I suppose you're quite sure,” she said, “that you 
know exactly where you took them from.” 

“I think so,” said Canon Sylvestre. “Yes, I think 
I can fix the place fairly accurately. They stood—” 

I caught a curious look of eagerness in Hardy's 
face. I did not see how he could possibly guess at the 
existence of Wilbred's treasure, or if he did guess, how 
he came to connect it with the Ogam stones. But 
there was no doubt that he was deeply interested. 
Genevieve was frankly excited. I interrupted Canon 
Sylvestre before he had blurted out what he knew 
about the position of the stones. 

“We can’t cram up the car with great filthy stones. 
There are five of us besides the driver, and if we take 
the stones as well we should all be covered with mud 
and probably break the springs of the car.” 

“Oh, "that won't matter in the least,” said Hardy. 
“I can always get another car if I want one.” 

Fortunately Lucy, though she did not care about 
the springs of the car, disliked the idea of being cov- 


154 


FOUND MONEY 


ered with mud. She had washed herself elaborately 
after her railway journey and had put on a clean frock. 
Besides, she really wanted to send her message to 
George. 

“If we’re to have a car,” she said, “couldn’t we 
drive into Athlone, and then I could send my own 
wire? The stones can quite well wait until to-mor¬ 
row.” 

I saw that Canon Sylvestre was going to protest, 
perhaps to say that we could go to Athlone after we 
had returned the stones. He was really eager to do 
that. But I thought I saw a way to manage him. I 
took him aside and whispered. 

“I rather shrink,” I said, “from putting back those 
stones with people standing round who do not share 
the depth of our feelings about the sacredness of what 
we are doing. Hardy, now. An excellent fellow, but 
he might mock. Genevieve would certainly laugh. 
Lucy would not understand. The atmosphere would 
be unsympathetic.” 

Canon Sylvestre grasped my hand warmly. 

“You’re right,” he said. “I understand, I fully 
understand your feeling.” 

Heaven knows what he thought I wanted. I sin¬ 
cerely hoped that I had not let myself in for a religious 


FOUND MONEY 


155 


ceremony, performed by moonlight with fasting and 
some form of exorcism. Yet even that would be bet¬ 
ter than to have Hardy standing by while we erected 
sign-posts over the buried gold. 


CHAPTER XII 


L UCY and Genevieve went to bed early that night, 
tired by their long journey and their exciting 
day. I sat up with Canon Sylvestre, drinking more 
of his excellent poteen punch and listening to his com¬ 
ments on the biography which Hardy had given him 
in the afternoon. 

“We must regard him,” said Canon Sylvestre, “as 
a typical product of the time in which we are living. 
Snatched from the monotonous security of the life of 
a bank clerk, plunged into the vortex of the European 
War, he has been possessed by a restless spirit of ad¬ 
venture.” 

I yawned while Canon Sylvestre enlarged on the 
spirit of adventure and its advantages to the human 
race. When he had said all he could about that and 
compared Hardy to Christopher Columbus, he sud¬ 
denly became aware of another aspect of the question. 

“I fear,” he said, “that he, and no doubt many 
others, have been—I hardly like to say they have been 
—unfitted for peaceful occupations, but they have con- 

156 


FOUND MONEY 


157 

ceived a dislike of earning their daily bread by quiet 
work.” 

I yawned again. It may have been the trying day 
I had been through, the long motor drive or the 
whisky punch. I was unconquerably sleepy. Canon 
Sylvestre discussed Hardy’s dislike of going back to 
his bank, and compared him first to Oliver Cromwell 
and then to a sixteenth-century Italian soldier of for¬ 
tune. At that point my head nodded and I went hope¬ 
lessly to sleep in my chair. It was half past ten when 
Canon Sylvestre, having finished all he wanted to say, 
woke me up, and led me off to bed. He is a kind- 
hearted man and a very courteous host. He did not 
say a word of reproach. He was not even seriously 
annoyed, though I had gone to sleep in the middle of 
one of his most interesting discourses. Perhaps clergy¬ 
men get used to that and mind it less than other men. 

Unfortunately, I woke up completely when I got to 
my bedroom. The same thing has often happened to 
me before. Having dropped into an uncomfortable 
slumber in a chair before the fire I have roused my¬ 
self and gone to bed, only to find that sleep there is 
totally impossible. Such was my fate that night. I 
undressed, got into bed and lay there worrying about 
Genevieve’s money, about Hardy, about the men’s din- 


158 


FOUND MONEY 


ing-room in the aerodrome, about the Ogam stones, 
and even about Irish politics. At last I felt I could lie 
there no longer without going mad. I got up, lit my 
pipe, and opened the window. It was raining softly, 
but the night was warm and I had a hope that the 
fresh air might make me sleepy again. A waning 
moon gave a dim light from somewhere behind the 
misty clouds. My window overlooked the lawn and 
the garden beyond it. I could just discern the outlines 
of the infernal Ogam stones standing among the drip¬ 
ping apple-trees. I sincerely wished that Wilbred had 
chosen some other way of marking his hiding-place. 
Why could he not have given me a series of measure¬ 
ments? “From the church tower eight and a half fur¬ 
longs, N.N.E. From the ruin on the river bank, so 
many furlongs S.S.W.,” with cross-bearings from the 
rectory chimneys and the signal-post outside the sta¬ 
tion. It would have been immensely troublesome to 
find the treasure with such directions. I should prob¬ 
ably have had to spend weeks studying the art of land 
surveying; but I should not have been at the mercy of 
the miserable chances which had led to the removal of 
the stones. The church tower would have stayed 
where it was and no human being would have taken 
the trouble to move the ruin. 


FOUND MONEY 


159 


A man came from the shadow of the garden wall 
and crossed the lawn slowly. He seemed to be scan¬ 
ning the windows of the house, for his head was raised 
as he walked. Half-way across the lawn he paused 
and stood staring. I felt sure that he had caught sight 
of me. He came forward a little and waved his hand 
in my direction. I could not see his face, but I thought 
by the shape of the cap he wore and the cut of his 
water-proof coat that it was Hardy. I leaned out of 
the window and waved at him. 

He came nearer still, came on until he was close 
under my window. Then he spoke in a low voice. 

“I say, Farnham, come down like a good man and 
let me in. I want to speak to you. I suppose every 
one else is in bed.” 

“Yes.” 

“Good,” said Hardy. “I want to speak to you 
privately.” 

I was curious to hear what Hardy had to say, so I 
went down softly, opened th.e door and brought him 
into Canon Sylvestre’s study. There I lit two candles 
—Canon Sylvestre had apparently taken the lamp with 
him to his bedroom—and Hardy and I sat down to 
talk by their feeble light. 

“Rather luck,” he said, “catching sight of you 


i6o 


FOUND MONEY 


looking out of your bedroom window. For to tell you 
the truth I didn’t quite know how to get at you. If I 
had begun hammering at the door I might have roused 
old Sylvestre, and it wouldn’t have been easy to ex¬ 
plain what I wanted with you at this hour of the 
night.” 

“But why choose this hour?” I said. “It would 
have been just as easy to come up about nine or ten 
o’clock, and then there’d have been nothing odd about 
asking to see me.” 

“I would have come earlier if I could,” said Hardy, 
“but I’ve only just got back from Athlone.” 

He had been there in the afternoon when we were 
sending off Lucy’s telegram, and he had returned with 
us in his own motor. He must have gone straight 
back there again after leaving us at the rectory. I 
wondered why. He offered me an explanation, which 
merely puzzled me. 

“I wanted to make sure about one or two points,” 
he said, “and there is a man there, a solicitor, who 
knew Wilbred a great deal better than I did. Unfor¬ 
tunately he was out and I had to wait before I saw 
him. However, I did see him in the end, and he 
cleared up everything I was doubtful about. Of course 
I didn’t give him a hint of what you and I are after.” 


FOUND MONEY 


161 


This made me extremely uneasy. Hardy plainly 
knew a great deal about Wilbred, and his lawyer 
friend knew even more. I wished that I knew a little 
more myself. It was plain enough now that Hardy 
was on the track of the money. However, he could 
not know Wilbred’s secret, and I was quite determined 
that he should not learn it from me. 

“Well,” said Hardy, “I dare say we may as well 
get straight to business.” 

“Unless you’re going to offer me a commission in 
your army,” I said, “I can’t imagine what business 
you can have with me.” 

Hardy looked at me for a minute. 

“Hang it all, Farnham,” he said, “that won’t do. 
Between ourselves, now, with nobody here to listen 
to us, what is the use of keeping up that pose?” 

I kept it up all the same, as well as I could, and 
met Hardy’s gaze with a look of bewildered surprise. 
He leaned forward and lit a cigarette at the flame of 
one of the candles, saying: 

“You’re quite right to keep your mouth shut. But 
when I tell you I’ve come to talk about Wilbred’s money 
you’ll see that you may as well speak frankly.” 

“I’m not at all sure,” I said, “that Quartus Wilbred 
had any money.” 


FOUND MONEY 


162 

That was true. Every now and then I became 
thrilled and really believed in the buried treasure. In 
calmer moments, such moments as come to us all when 
we lie awake at night, the whole business seemed 
preposterous. 

“It amounted altogether to something a little over 
twenty thousand pounds,” said Hardy. 

He was evidently very well informed, so well in¬ 
formed that there seemed little use pretending to know 
nothing about the matter. 

“I suppose,” he said, “that Wilbred sent you over 
here to get the money for him ?” 

There at least he was wrong. 

“Wilbred’s dead,” I said. “He died in Brittany 
last week.” 

“That accounts for it,” said Hardy. “I must say, 
knowing Wilbred as I did, I felt a bit surprised at 
his trusting anybody. And somehow or other you 
don’t look the kind of man who’d be a pal of his.” 

I felt that Hardy was paying me a compliment 
there. From what I had seen of Wilbred—very little, 
but quite enough for me—I was inclined to think that 
his chosen friends were likely to be very undesirable 
people. 

“I was rather bothered about you at first,” said 


FOUND MONEY 


163 


Hardy. “Couldn’t make out what you were doing 
here, for I needn’t tell you I didn’t believe a word of 
the old parson’s story about those stones. I don’t sup¬ 
pose you care a damn if those stones were broken up 
to-morrow and scattered about the roads.” 

Hardy, like many suspicious men, had carried his 
skepticism too far. I was deeply interested in the 
stones, though not in the way Canon Sylvestre said. 
But Hardy might deceive himself if he chose. If he 
thought there was no connection between the stones 
and the money he would be all the further from learn¬ 
ing the secret. 

“Oh, the stones,” I said casually. “The stones 
were dragged in by old Sylvestre.” 

“I saw that at once,” said Hardy. “But all the 
same that ridiculous story of his was what set me 
wondering about you. I could see you weren’t a 
journalist, and I began asking myself what the devil 
you were doing here. Then Miss Wilbred turned up 
and you introduced me. Her name set me thinking. 
Afterward you told me that Wilbred’s name was 
Quartus. That struck me as odd. There can’t be 
hundreds, I shouldn’t think there are dozens, of men 
called Quartus Wilbred. When it came out that he 
was a brother of the Eloquent Josephine I felt I was 


164 


FOUND MONEY 


on the right track. What finally convinced me was 
the girl’s refusing to admit that her father had ever 
lived in Athlone. After that, though I was pretty sure 
I was on the right track, I ran into Athlone and asked 
the man I mentioned to you whether Quartus Wilbred 
ever had a daughter. It appears he had, and what’s 
more her name was Genevieve. That just about set¬ 
tled it.” 

I could hardly deny that Hardy had made out a 
pretty complete case for the identification of his Wil¬ 
bred with mine. The long arm of coincidence does 
some surprising things in life; but even it could scarce¬ 
ly be expected to produce two Quartus Wilbreds, each 
with a sister called Josephine and a daughter called 
Genevieve. If we had been dealing with a John 
Smith, a sister Mary and a daughter Jane, I might 
have smiled at Hardy. But Wilbred, Quartus, Jose¬ 
phine, Genevieve. The thing was impossible. 

“Well,” I said, “supposing that all your inferences 
are right, I don’t see that they lead to anything except 
the fact that you once met Quartus Wilbred, knew him 
pretty well, I dare say. What does it matter whether 
you did or not?” 

“I knew Wilbred well enough,” said Hardy, “to 
wonder what the devil he did with that money, or rath- 


FOUND MONEY 165 

er, where he had managed to hide it, for it was always 
pretty obvious that he’d hidden it somewhere.” 

“If you think I’m going to tell you where he hid 
it,” I said, “you’re greatly mistaken. It’s Miss Wil- 
bred’s money, and I wouldn’t tell you where it is even 
if I knew. But as a matter of fact, I don’t know. I’m 
not even sure that there’s any money hidden at all.” 

“You may take my word for it that there is,” said 
Hardy. “Twenty thousand pounds in gold. Nice 
round shiny gold sovereigns. I’ve known that much 
for years. And of course it was pretty plain that he 
must have hidden it somewhere in the neighborhood 
of Athlone. He couldn’t have carried that much money 
away very far. I tell you I’ve often thought about it 
and wondered how he managed. Cycled off with it, I 
suppose, a few hundreds at a time. But whether he 
went north, south, east or west, I couldn’t guess. I’d 
nothing to go by till you turned up and his daughter 
along with you. Then it was pretty plain that the 
money must be somewhere hereabouts. Why would 
you be mouching about if the money wasn’t there ?” 

“Well,” I said, “supposing you’re right. What 
next?” 

“Naturally,” said Hardy, “I shall expect a percent¬ 
age. Now do, like a sensible man, let me talk business. 


166 


FOUND MONEY 


You know exactly where that money is, and I don’t. 
That puts you in a strong position, and you can drive 
a pretty hard bargain with me. On the other hand, 
I’m in possession of the camp. See? If I choose to 
give orders to-morrow neither Miss Wilbred nor you 
nor any friend of yours will be able to enter the camp. 
That’s where I have the pull over you, and if you think 
it over you’ll see that I’ve something to bargain with 
too.” 

I saw that, and it did not make me feel any more 
comfortable. I did not want to bargain with Hardy. 
I had no right to give away a penny of Genevieve’s 
money, but it was unpleasantly plain that I might 
never be able to get it without Hardy’s help. 

“I’m not a greedy man,” he said, “and I don’t 
want to be hard on Miss Wilbred. Promise me ten 
per cent., and the girl can have the rest.” 

That struck me as a surprisingly moderate demand. 
If Hardy had said no more I might have accepted the 
terms then and there. But he tried to improve his 
offer. 

“Or I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “I’ll give 
you twenty per cent, on condition that you go back to 
England and leave the coast clear for me to marry the 
girl.” 


FOUND MONEY 


167 


) 

He got my back up by making that suggestion. I 
do not know why I should have minded it as much as 
I did. Such plans are made every day, and the sale of 
Genevieve would have been no worse than hundreds of 
other marriages. But when Hardy proposed it, I felt 
furious. If he had not dragged her into it I might 
have bargained with him. There seemed little doubt 
that with his help I could have got the money easily 
enough. Canon Sylvestre would have shown us as 
nearly as he could the original position of the stones. 
With any luck I should not have had to dig up more 
than about an acre of ground. If Hardy turned his 
fifty men on to the job we should have found the 
money in two hours. He would, no doubt, have been 
willing to lend us his men, and if any questions were 
ever asked he could have said that they were practising 
making field fortifications. All that was worth pay¬ 
ing for, and ten per cent, was not an excessive price. 
But I lost my temper when Hardy suggested the other 
alternative. 

“You can go to the devil,” I said. “You’ll not get 
ten per cent, or five per cent, or one single penny of 
Miss Wilbred’s money.” 

“All right,” said Hardy, “but if you take that line 
you’ll never get a penny either. You’ll not set foot 


168 


FOUND MONEY 


in the camp. I’ll have sentries posted to-morrow with 
orders to shoot if you come within fifty yards of them. 
But I’m not so sure that I’m altogether out of it. I 
shall start digging on my own in all the likely places I 
can think of. I may not get it, but if I do, you and 
Miss Wilbred may come to me on your knees for ten 
per cent, and you won’t get it.” 

“It’ll take you some time to dig up the whole of 
that camp. Years, I should think, unless you get your 
whole army down to help you. Better wire for rein¬ 
forcements to-morrow.” 

Something in that suggestion made Harvey un¬ 
easy. I saw by his eyes that he was troubled. Just 
for a moment I could not think what was bothering 
him. Then it came to me in a flash. 

“You know perfectly well,” I said, “that you won’t 
be in that camp long enough to dig up a quarter of it. 
You told me yourself that you expected to be turned 
out of it in a couple of days by some other damned 
freebooters, with even less respect for law and decency 
than you have.” 

I got him there. He had not a word to say for 
himself, for he knew he was beaten. He must have 
been perfectly certain that events would run the way 
he prophesied and that Republican forces would arrive 


FOUND MONEY 


169 


on the scene very soon. I suppose that if you’ve seen 
a thing happen twenty times you begin to regard it as 
part of the order of nature and take it for granted that 
it will happen again. 

“Look here,” he said, “I’m sorry for what I said 
about marrying Miss Wilbred. As a matter of fact I 
don’t want to do that in the least. Leading the kind 
of life I do, a wife would simply be a nuisance to me. 
I’d much rather have a couple of thousand pounds 
down than the finest girl in Ireland and twenty thou¬ 
sand pounds along with her if I had to be tied up to her 
for life. Let’s wipe out that silly suggestion of mine 
and get back to where we were. I know jolly well that 
I shan’t have time to do much digging before those in¬ 
fernal Republicans arrive and turn me out. I shall 
be done in utterly. But then so will you. They’ll never 
agree to your pulling down buildings and digging 
holes. And if they get the faintest hint of what you’re 
after they’ll give you and Miss Wilbred twenty-four 
hours to clear out of Ireland, and then they’ll grab the 
whole of the money themselves. My God, man, those 
fellows live on loot. Do you think they’d hesitate 
about a little job like shooting you?” 

I did not suppose they would hesitate, if they knew 
about the money, and Hardy was talking plain sense 


170 


FOUND MONEY 


when he said that they would not let me dig up their 
camp. Why should they? That had been one of my 
difficulties all along, whoever occupied the camp. 

“Wouldn’t it be better for us,” said Hardy, “to 
come to a reasonable agreement and get the money 
while we can?” 

My temper, after its brief flare, was dying down. 
I saw the advantages of Hardy’s plan plainly enough. 
I did not like the idea of depriving Genevieve of a 
tenth of her fortune; but it might be well to pay two 
thousand pounds to Hardy if by so doing we could 
make sure of the rest of the money. 

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” I said. “Leave the 
whole thing open till to-morrow and I’ll talk to Miss 
Wilbred about it. If she agrees—” 

“Of course she’ll agree,” said Hardy. “Even her 
father would have agreed to that, and he was as hard 
a man as any I ever met.” 

He shook hands and left me. After he had gone I 
began to wish that he had told me something more 
about Genevieve’s father. I was still up against the 
old puzzle. Why on earth did Quartus Wilbred bury 
his money? 


CHAPTER XIII 


I WAS wakened next morning by Canon Sylvestre’s 
housekeeper. She brought me hot shaving water 
and a cup of tea. This rather surprised me. The old 
woman had been in a bad temper the day before, re¬ 
senting the extra work put on her by the arrival of 
Lucy and Genevieve. I knew that Lucy was quite 
capable of asking for hot water for another bath, and 
I should not have been astonished if Mrs. Hegarty 
had gone on strike and refused to do anything for 
any of us. 

I half opened my eyes when she came into the 
room, intending to shut them again firmly if she was 
in the sort of temper I expected. When I saw that she 
was smiling cheerfully I admitted that I was awake 
and said good morning to her. Besides being in a 
good temper, she was evidently excited about some¬ 
thing. I saw that by the brisk way she set down my 
tea tray and the vigor with which she pulled up the 
blind. With a woman like Mrs. Hegarty it is always 
safe to assume that she will want to tell any news that 
171 


172 


FOUND MONEY 


she has heard. I had nothing- to do but wait till she 
chose to speak. She did that before she left the room. 

“Them playboys down in the camp,” she said, “will 
be getting more than they asked for very soon. I 
wouldn’t wonder, but they might all be dead before 
night.” 

I gathered that some misfortune had happened to 
Hardy and his men. Mrs. Hegarty seemed exceed¬ 
ingly pleased. In case I had any doubt about her feel¬ 
ings, she made them quite plain to me in her next 
sentence. 

“And nobody’ll be sorry for them when they are 
dead,” she went on, “for it’s what they deserve.” 

I had not the slightest idea what Mrs. Hegarty’s 
political sympathies were. She might, for all I knew, 
be a Free Stater, a Republican, a Bolshevik, or even a 
Loyalist. Nor did I want to find out. The political 
principles of every Irish party seem to boil down to 
the same thing in the end. They all believe that the 
only hope of the country lies in the slaughter of most 
of its inhabitants. They differ, of course, about who 
are to constitute the minority which is to be allowed 
to survive. 

“It was Jimmy the Kithogue was telling me,” Mrs. 
Hegarty went on. “He’s the young lad that does be 


FOUND MONEY 


173 


coming in every morning to clean the knives and 
boots. He lives beyond the bog, and it was when he 
was on his way here this morning that he seen what 
he did see.” 

“And what did he see ?” I asked. 

Mrs. Hegarty had been fidgeting with the hot- 
water can, the basin and a couple of towels. When I 
asked my question she gave up the pretense of being 
occupied, and stood opposite my bed with her arms 
akimbo and a smile of grim satisfaction on her face. 

“What he seen,” she said, “was a lot of young fel¬ 
lows with guns in their hands and black murder in 
their hearts standing there waiting for the word so as 
they could begin slaughtering the lads that came here 
yesterday. And when they’ve done that it’s likely 
they’ll be coming up here to be killing his reverence 
and me and the rest of whoever is in the house; though 
maybe they won’t do much to Jimmy the Kithogue on 
account of his being no more than twelve years old.” 

The thought of her own fate, and ours, seemed to 
give Mrs. Hegarty almost as much satisfaction as the 
slaughter of Hardy and his men. 

“That’s the way it is with them ones,” she went on. 
“They’re never satisfied without they’re killing some¬ 
body, nor they won’t rest content until somebody has 


174 


FOUND MONEY 


killed them. But what odds? It won’t be long be¬ 
fore there’ll be some one else round to murder them.” 

“When they’re all dead,” I said mildly, “I dare say 
there’ll be a little peace and quietness.” 

“There’ll be no peace and quietness in this coun¬ 
try,” said Mrs. Hegarty, “either then or at any other 
time.” 

It must be very comfortable, in a 'world full of un¬ 
certainty and rapidly-shifting belief, to be like Mrs. 
Hegarty, firmly anchored to an uncompromising 
pessimism. 

“I must be getting along now,” she said, “to be 
attending on them women that his reverence brought 
in here on top of me yesterday. But if they think 
they’re going to get the chance of washing the whole 
of themselves in hot water again this morning, they’re 
mistook. There’ll be no hot water for them.” 

From this I gathered that Lucy had asked for an¬ 
other bath, and was very unlikely to get it. 

“Cock the likes of them up with baths,” said Mrs. 
Hegarty, with her hand on my door-handle. “I’ve 
seen better nor them that was well enough pleased to 
have the chance of washing their faces and wouldn’t 
ask for more than one year’s end to another.” 

Mrs. Hegarty’s news worried me. I knew that 


FOUND MONEY 


U5 


Hardy fully expected some other army to come and 
take his camp from him. What he would not expect 
was that the catastrophe would occur so soon. I could 
not help wondering what Genevieve's position and 
mine would be when another commander reigned in 
Hardy’s place. The new man might possibly be an 
austere patriot who would not allow me to dig up his 
camp, even if I pretended that I wanted to plant pota¬ 
toes with a view to increasing the food supply of the 
nation. Or he might—and this seemed to me more 
likely—be a greedier man than Hardy, one with whom 
it would be impossible to deal on a ten per cent, basis. 

I should have felt easier in my mind if I could have 
been sure that the new man knew nothing about the 
buried money. It did not seem likely that he would 
have heard about it. But Hardy knew a great deal 
about it, and I began to think that Wilbred’s peculiar 
way of keeping his money must be a matter of com¬ 
mon talk in Ireland. What Hardy knew might be 
equally well known to hundreds of other people. The 
only part of the secret which Genevieve and I could re¬ 
gard as nearly our own was the exact place where the 
money lay. And even about that we could not be 
sure since Canon Sylvestre had moved the stones. 

Canon Sylvestre was not in the breakfast-room 


FOUND MONEY 


176 

when I got there. He had gone out to feed his chick¬ 
ens. Genevieve had not come down-stairs. Lucy was 
the only person present, and I noticed at once that she 
was in a bad temper. I took it for granted that she 
had been worsted by Mrs. Hegarty in a battle about 
the bath. That was no reason why she should make an 
unprovoked attack on me. But she did. 

“Johnny,” she said, “how long do you expect me 
to stay here dancing attendance on Genevieve?” 

“I don’t expect you to stay here at all,” I said, 
“and I don’t in the least want you to. The sooner you 
go home the better I’ll be pleased. If you stay we’ll 
have George coming here after you, and the very last 
person I want in Knockcroghery is George.” 

“You know perfectly well,” said Lucy, “that I 
can’t go home and leave you and Genevieve wander¬ 
ing about Ireland by yourselves. You may be indif¬ 
ferent to public opinion, but I don’t like scandals. Nor 
does George.” 

I knew that. Nobody hates a scandal more than 
George does. I do not care for them myself, though 
I do not take Lucy’s view that they are the chief evil 
in life. 

“When I suggested your going home,” I said, “I 
hoped you’d take Genevieve with you.” 


FOUND MONEY 


1 77 


“I can’t do that,” said Lucy, “and you know per¬ 
fectly well why I can’t. There’s no use beating about 
the bush. It’s always far better to speak out plainly. 
Johnny, that girl is infatuated about you.” 

“Nonsense,” I said. 

I knew that Lucy was entirely wrong. Genevieve 
was infatuated about the adventure of the treasure 
hunt. She would have been just as keen on it if I had 
been a disagreeable old man or another woman. 

“She dragged me out of my home,” said Lucy, 
“away from my husband and my children, simply be¬ 
cause she wouldn’t be parted from you.” 

“My dear Lucy,” I said. “Dragged ? She couldn’t 
have dragged you. You’re far bigger and stronger 
than she is, and even if you weren’t you’d nothing to 
do but shout for help.” 

“You know perfectly well what I mean.” said Lucy 
firmly. 

Of course I did. I recognized the enormous 
strength of Genevieve’s position. She did not care a 
pin about public scandals. She probably did not know 
that there was anything scandalous about following 
me about. Lucy understood scandals thoroughly and 
was sensitive about them. “Dragged” was hardly too 
strong a word to use. But I did not see why she should 


FOUND MONEY 


178 

attack me. It was not my fault that Genevieve had 
hustled her. It was not my fault—I remembered that 
Mrs. Hegarty had got the better of her over the matter 
of hot water. I felt sorry for her about that and tried 
to speak kindly. 

“Lucy,” I said, “I’m sorry about your not getting 
a bath this morning. If you think it’s worth while to 
undress again I’ll carry up the water for you myself.” 

Lucy took that offer very badly. She looked at me 
in silence for a moment and then said: 

“That may be literature. I don’t know whether 
it is or not. You’re the only author in the family, and 
if you say it’s literature I’ll take your word for it.” 

“It isn’t,” I said. “I assure you it wasn’t even 
meant to be.” 

“It certainly isn’t sense,” said Lucy, “so I natur¬ 
ally thought it was literature. But what I’m going to 
say to you now is sense. Johnny, you’ve either got to 
propose to that girl to-day or else make it quite plain 
that you don’t mean to have anything more to do with 
her. She’s a nice girl, in spite of her absurd infatua¬ 
tion for you. I like her and I simply won’t stand by 
and watch you philandering with her as you’re doing, 
breaking the poor child’s heart and ruining her repu¬ 
tation.” 


FOUND MONEY 179 

“I suppose there’s no use my assuring you—” I 
began. 

“I don’t know what went on in Brittany,” said 
Lucy, “but since you brought her over to London your 
conduct has been both heartless and shameless.” 

Then, before I could make any further attempt to 
explain myself, Canon Sylvestre came in. He had fed 
his hens and they had evidently been grateful for their 
meal. He carried in his hand a basket with about a 
dozen eggs in it. He greeted Lucy warmly and then 
turned to me. 

“I’ve given directions,” he said, “to have the earth 
round the Ogam stones loosened. If my man, the man 
I occasionally hire, had been here to-day I should have 
told him to dig up the stones. Unfortunately he isn’t. 
He is away from home, engaged, I fancy, in military 
service of some kind. But the boy who cleans the 
boots is here. I am afraid the task of digging up the 
stones might be too heavy for him; but there’s no 
possible reason why he shouldn’t loosen the earth 
round the—” 

“What are those stones?” said Lucy. 

“Ogam stones,” said Canon Sylvestre. “Surely 
your brother told you about his interest in these Ogam 
stones ?” 


i8o 


FOUND MONEY 


“I’ve told you about them a dozen times at least, 
Lucy,” I said. 

“I’ve heard you all talking about stones,” said 
Lucy, “but I don’t in the least know what they are.” 

Canon Sylvestre told her the whole story of the 
stones, first his own share in it, then mine. He drew 
a little on his imagination—at least I think he did— 
when he said that I first became interested in the 
stones when I found some exactly like them in Brittany. 
I do not remember telling him that, though I may pos¬ 
sibly have said something of the sort in the course 
of the first evening while I drank his whisky punch. 
I know I made several efforts to render my interest in 
the stones credible. 

Lucy did not believe that I cared a pin for any 
ancient stones. She knew that such things were not in 
my line at all. Like Hardy, she was puzzled when she 
heard the story. 

“Genevieve,” I said, “thoroughly understands my 
feelings about those stones.” 

“And so do I,” said Canon Sylvestre. “So do I. 
I share your brother’s feelings, Mrs. Stubbington. I 
realize now that he has pointed it out to me, that my 
own conduct, though excusable, was certainly wrong.” 


FOUND MONEY 


181 


Then Genevieve came in, looking very fresh and 
quite ready for a day of adventure. 

“Shall I boil the eggs?” said Canon Sylvestre. 
“And how long do you like yours boiled, Mrs. Stub- 
bington ?” 


CHAPTER XIV 


W HILE we were at breakfast I told Mrs. Heg- 
arty’s news about the arrival of the Republi¬ 
can forces at the aerodrome. Nobody else had heard 
about it. Lucy, who knows less about Irish politics 
than I do, shrugged her shoulders and said it was just 
the sort of thing that might be expected to happen in 
Ireland. She added that the sooner she and Gene¬ 
vieve were out of the country the better. 

Genevieve was agreeably excited by the news. I 
do not know where she worked this new force into her 
buried-treasure story. As a rule the complications of 
this kind of story are not great. There is the more or 
less legitimate claimant of the treasure—in this case 
our party; the wicked and piratical people who are try¬ 
ing to seize the treasure to which they have no more 
real right than the legitimate claimants; and there are 
the natural difficulties inherent in all such affairs; 
secrets preserved in cipher and so forth. That is all. 
But our story seemed to be working out more confus¬ 
edly, and I did not see what part the Republican forces 
182 


FOUND MONEY 


183 


were to play in the proceedings. Genevieve might like 
their incursion, but in my opinion things were quite 
complicated enough without them. 

Genevieve made no attempt to hide her delight. 
There was clear promise of fresh adventure, and ad¬ 
venture was what she desired. She proposed that we 
should all go down to the camp immediately after 
breakfast tO' see what was happening. Lucy, as I ex¬ 
pected, refused to go. She also—and this I did not 
expect—prevented Canon Sylvestre from going. She 
feigned an interest which she certainly did not feel in 
his hens, his cows, and even his bees. She also said 
that she wanted to inspect the Ogam stones. Canon 
Sylvestre is a very courteous man. He would not have 
refused any request made by a lady who was a guest 
in his house, and he certainly enjoys displaying his 
possessions. Still, I think he would rather have gone 
down to the camp to see what was happening. 

Genevieve and I went off together. Lucy saw us 
off and by various glances, nudges and winks, made it 
plain to me that she was giving me my opportunity. I 
understood that before I came back I must either have 
offered my hand and heart to Genevieve or else made 
it quite clear that I was not going to. I was not clear 
how I was going to do that. Lucy can scarcely have 


184 FOUND MONEY 

wanted me to push the girl into a bog hole and leave 
her there. 

The situation in the camp was remarkable enough. 
Genevieve and I surveyed it with great interest from 
the top of a little mound after we had skipped and 
trotted across the bog. Hardy and his Free State 
troops had retired to the northern end of the camp and 
had got two machine-guns into position. The Repub¬ 
lican forces held possession of the south part. They 
greatly outnumbered Hardy’s army, but they had only 
one machine-gun. Between the two forces lay a kind 
of No Man’s Land, on which stood several of the camp 
buildings, among them the men’s dining-room, by far 
the most important building there, and from our point 
of view the only one worth fighting for. 

Hardy had made it plain to me that all Irish armies 
prefer negotiation to fighting, having a high-prin¬ 
cipled dislike of fratricidal strife. It struck me as pos¬ 
sible that an agreement might be reached by the estab¬ 
lishment of a kind of buffer state between the northern 
and southern parts of the camp. I was quite prepared 
to take over the charge of this territory, including the 
men’s dining-room. If necessary I would have nom¬ 
inated Canon Sylvestre as President of my little state, 
taking office myself as Chancellor of the Exchequer. 


FOUND MONEY 


185 

Neither party could have any objection to Canon Syl- 
vestre, and so far as I knew neither party had any 
reason to dislike me. 

I suggested this plan to Genevieve, and, being per¬ 
fectly absurd and impracticable, it appealed to her at 
once. We trotted down from our mound of observa¬ 
tion and approached the camp from its southern end. 
Before we reached the little iron-roofed guard-house 
at the entrance we were aware of a considerable 
amount of movement among the Republican troops. 
The men were flocking together on what was once the 
parade-ground. At first I thought that they were 
really contemplating an attack on Hardy’s men and 
meant to rush the northern part of the camp with a 
single gallant charge. If they did that, Hardy’s men 
would almost certainly fire off their rifles and ma¬ 
chine-guns before they ran away, and our position in 
the rear of the attacking force would be dangerous. 
I wanted Genevieve to take shelter in a ditch until the 
worst of the fray was over. But she would not listen 
to my advice. I could hardly leave her to enter the 
zone of fire alone, so I went on with her. 

We soon saw that the Republican Army was not 
going to do anything so desperate as attack. The men 
were gathering on the parade-ground for the much 


FOUND MONEY 


186 

more agreeable purpose of listening to a speech. A 
motor-car drove up from the direction of Athlone, 
entered the camp by the east gate, and rolled across 
the grass to the parade-ground. There it stopped, 
and the orator, who was to provide the morning’s en¬ 
tertainment, stood up on a seat. I noticed with some 
surprise that it was a woman. 

The ancient Romans, according to Livy, always 
had speeches before battle, always long, always deliv¬ 
ered in the most polished phrases. The Greeks—my 
recollections of Thucydides are a little vague—but I 
think the Greeks did the same thing. These classical 
orators were always generals, a fact which suggests 
that the course of study in the Staff Colleges of those 
days must have included elocution. Cromwell’s Puri¬ 
tan soldiers liked sermons before and after battle, but 
the preachers were learned and more or less ordained 
clergymen, though very long-winded. The Irish sys¬ 
tem of listening to exhortations from women was new 
to me, and I felt interested in it. Genevieve and I 
passed the guard-house, and made our way toward the 
parade-ground. The speaker’s back was turned to us 
and we could not hear what she was saying, but when 
we were within about fifty yards of her Genevieve sud¬ 
denly clutched my arm. 


FOUND MONEY 


“Aunt Josephine!” she said in a tense whisper. 

I might have expected it. The chief feature of our 
treasure hunt so far had been the way complications 
multiplied themselves. First there was the existence 
of a totally unnecessary aerodrome. Then came Canon 
Sylvestre’s innocent removal of his neighbor’s most 
important landmark. Then Hardy’s arrival with his 
inexplicable knowledge of our private affairs. Then 
the Republicans marched up. Then Lucy dragged her 
red herring of obsolete propriety across the whole field 
of operations. And now Aunt Josephine. It was easy 
to see how her coming might be the worst thing that 
had happened to us yet. She could no doubt claim to 
be Genevieve’s official guardian and the trustee of her 
fortune. She might, probably would, tell me that my 
help was no longer required and that I might go back 
to my own proper business again. Lucy would be 
pleased if that happened. So would George. I real¬ 
ized with a pang that I should be acutely disappointed. 
I looked at Genevieve, and wondered whether she, too, 
would be annoyed. 

Josephine—well named the Eloquent—was speak¬ 
ing with great force. I could see that she was waving 
her arms and flinging herself about in a way that im¬ 
periled her position on the seat of the car. We ap- 


188 


FOUND MONEY 


proached cautiously and were soon able to hear little 
bits of what she said, scraps of sentences which she 
shouted with particular emphasis. “Traitors to the 
memory of the dead” was the phrase which I heard 
three times in the course of ten minutes, and each time 
it sent a thrill down my spine. “The honor of Ire¬ 
land,” proclaimed with emotion which was unmistak¬ 
ably genuine, set my heart beating at far beyond its 
usual pace. Some one or other, I did not hear his 
name, had “sold the honor of Ireland.” And Jose¬ 
phine asked with austere dignity what profit man or 
nation could expect to find in gaining a whole world 
and losing its immortal soul. Her training as a Sun¬ 
day-school teacher under Canon Sylvestre had not been 
entirely wasted. She still remembered several texts 
of Scripture. An unfortunate class of people whom 
she first described as “lackeys of the English Crown,” 
and later on as “citizens of the British Empire,” were 
treated with ferocious derision. 

“I wonder how long she’ll go on,” I whispered. 

“Hours and hours and hours,” said Genevieve. 
“She always does.” 

“Well,” I replied, “we needn’t stay for the whole 
of it. That’s the advantage of not being in the front 
row. We can slip away whenever we like.” 


FOUND MONEY 


189 


I remembered what Hardy had told me about the 
Eloquent Josephine’s capacity for public speaking. I 
had no intention of standing there for fourteen hours. 

“But,” said Genevieve, “I think we ought to get 
hold of Aunt Josephine if we can.” 

It was the last thing I wanted, except perhaps that 
Aunt Josephine should get hold of me. Genevieve, 
noting the expression of my face, explained herself. 

“Aunt Josephine,” she said, “has tremendous in¬ 
fluence in Ireland.” 

That I could believe. A woman who can shout as 
loud and go on shouting as long as she can would have 
tremendous influence anywhere. 

“If she gives orders that we’re to be allowed to 
dig in the camp,” said Genevieve, “nobody will dare to 
stop us.” 

“But,” I said, “do you think it wise to tell her 
about your father’s money?” 

“Oh, we shan’t tell her exactly what we’re after,” 
said Genevieve. “We’ll say that we’re digging up an¬ 
cient Irish brooches so as to prove that the Celtic civil¬ 
ization was the greatest in the world.” 

I had not yet seen Aunt Josephine’s face, but un¬ 
less she was a much greater fool than I judged her 
to be from the look of her back she would never be- 


190 


FOUND MONEY 


lieve that story, and I did not mean to try to make her. 
But there was a great deal of sense in what Genevieve 
said. If we could secure the sympathy and help of 
Aunt Josephine our way would be made much easier 
for us. 

“Very well, ,, I said, “we’ll try her. But there’s 
no use our waiting now. Judging by what Hardy told 
me, I should say we’ll be in good time for the end of 
that speech if we come back to-morrow morning after 
breakfast.” \ 

But we did not have to wait so long as that. 

I do not know why Aunt Josephine should have 
turned completely round and presented her back to her 
audience in the middle of an impassioned speech, but 
that was what she did. She may perhaps have en¬ 
gaged suddenly in a rhetorical prayer for Ireland, and 
felt, like most leaders of public prayer, that she could 
get at the Almighty better with her back to the con¬ 
gregation. Or she may simply have wanted to slip 
a lozenge into her mouth without being observed. 
Whatever her motive was she did turn round, and of 
course caught sight of Genevieve and me. We were 
by that time quite close to her, and we were the only 
people standing behind her. She could hardly have 
avoided seeing us or have failed to recognize her own 


FOUND MONEY 191 

niece. Genevieve, rather to my surprise, waved her 
hand in friendly greeting. 

Aunt Josephine hopped down from the seat on 
which she was standing and whispered to the lady 
who sat beside her. I do not know who that lady was, 
but she must have been a practised public speaker. As 
soon as she heard what was whispered to her she 
jumped up on the seat of the car and went on with 
Josephine's speech. The audience must have noticed 
the change of speaker, but there was scarcely a break 
in the flow of words. The new lady began exactly 
where Aunt Josephine left off. I am not quite sure, 
for I could not hear distinctly, but my impression is 
that she went on with an incompleted sentence and fin¬ 
ished it grammatically, which is more than most pub¬ 
lic speakers can do with their own sentences if they 
happen to be-at all long. 

Aunt Josephine slipped out of the motor-car and 
hurried to where we were standing. Genevieve went a 
few steps to meet her and allowed herself to be kissed, 
first on one cheek and then the other. Josephine’s 
kisses, like her oratory, are vigorous. I should not 
like to be her husband or even her niece. I am sure 
she would bruise me every time she felt affectionate. 

“My dear Genevieve," she said, “you're the very 


192 


FOUND MONEY 


last person I expected to see here. I thought you were 
in Brittany with your father.” 

“Father died last week,” said Genevieve. 

“Oh, did he!” 

Josephine’s tone suggested that Wilbred was very 
much better dead than alive. I do not think she could 
have got more concentrated bitterness into the words 
even if she had been speaking of a “citizen of the 
British Empire.” Perhaps Wilbred was “a lackey of 
the British Crown,” and that was why she hated him. 

“And what are you doing now?” asked Josephine. 

She looked at me as she asked that question, and 
I understood that any account Genevieve gave of her¬ 
self would have to include some explanation of how I 
came to be with her. 

“This,” said Genevieve simply, “is Mr. Famham.” 

That little introduction did not satisfy Aunt Jose¬ 
phine. It was hardly to be expected that it would. 
But Genevieve did not seem inclined to say anything 
more. I felt that I must give some account of myself. 

“I’m over here with your niece,” I said, “as a sort 
of trustee to look after her property.” 

Aunt Josephine glared at me. 

“We’re stopping at the rectory,” I said, “and my 
married sister is with us.” 


FOUND MONEY 


193 


That ought to have allayed any suspicions she had. 
No one can stop in a more thoroughly respectable 
place than a rectory, and a married sister is always 
reckoned to be an efficient chaperon. But Aunt Jose¬ 
phine was not in the least pacified. 

“What property ?” she asked. 

“The property,” I said, “which your brother left 
when he died. It all goes to Genevieve.” 

“My brother,” said Aunt Josephine, “never had a 
penny in his life to leave to Genevieve or anybody 
else.” 


CHAPTER XV 


UNT JOSEPHINE spoke with absolute convic- 



tion. She left me with the impression that her 
brother had not only lived and died without property 
of any kind, but richly deserved to be a pauper. I was 
once more shaken in my belief in the existence of the 
treasure. All my original doubts came back to me, and 
this time—so powerful was Aunt Josephine’s person¬ 
ality—not even the recollection of Wilbred’s tattooed 
legs helped me back to belief. 

The effect of her aunt’s words on Genevieve was 
quite different. I do not know that she particularly 
wanted to defend her father’s memory. She certainly 
did not want to be deprived of her treasure hunt. 

“Father did leave property,” she said, “lots and lots 
of property.” 

“Oh!” said Aunt Josephine. 

I’ve written “said,” but what she really did was 
snort. She was filled with contempt for Wilbred’s 
memory, and for Genevieve because she believed in 
him, and for me because I was associated with Gene- 


194 


FOUND MONEY 


195 

vieve. She implied all that in the way she snorted her 
“Oh,” but Genevieve was not subdued. 

“He left twenty thousand pounds,” said Genevieve, 
“all in golden sovereigns.” 

Josephine looked as if she was going to snort 
again, more contempuously than before. But this time 
she stopped herself before she had uttered a sound. 
Instead of speaking or snorting she took a long look at 
Genevieve, and then a longer look at me. I felt acutely 
uncomfortable. Genevieve did not. She was trium¬ 
phant. 

“Twenty thousand pounds,” she repeated, as if the 
mention of such a sum must carry conviction to her 
aunt. 

Curiously enough it did affect Aunt Josephine’s 
mind. 

“Ah,” she said, and this time the syllable was long- 
drawn out as if she were thinking deeply. 

“Twenty thousand pounds?” said Josephine. 
“All in gold ? Did you say all in gold ?” 

“In sovereigns,” said Genevieve. “Mr. Farnham 
and I have come to get it.” 

“And you’ve come here for it?” said Josephine. 

It seemed to me that she was asking far too many 
questions. And I did not understand the way she re- 


196 


FOUND MONEY 


ceived the news that her brother had died a rich man. 
First she scoffed at the idea that he could have had 
any money. Then she began to believe it when she 
heard that it was all in gold. I should have found it 
easier to believe in the existence of the money if I had 
been told that it was invested in government stock. 

“Are you looking for your father’s money here?” 
said Aunt Josephine. 

If we went on answering her questions she would 
soon have more information than I thought it wise to 
give her. “We’re making a few preliminary inquiries 
in this neighborhood,” I said. 

She did not pay any attention to that remark. 

“Quartus might have done it,” she said thought¬ 
fully. “He certainly might have hidden the money. 
I wonder I never thought of that before.” 

The astonishing thing to me was that she thought 
of it then. Both she and Hardy seemed to regard it 
as quite natural that Wilbred should bury a large sum 
of money. Once the idea suggested itself to them they 
saw nothing the least odd about it. 

“I suppose you know,” she said to Genevieve, “that 
the money, if there is any money, no more belonged 
to your father than it does to me. You haven’t a 
shadow of a right to it.” 


FOUND MONEY 197 

“Father said it was his,” said Genevieve, “and he 
said I was to have it.” 

Aunt Josephine turned to me. 

“Genevieve may be a fool,” she said. “In any case, 
she’s a child. But you’re a grown-up man, and you 
know very well that if you take that money you’ll ren¬ 
der yourself liable to a criminal prosecution.” 

I rather wished then that I had stayed a day longer 
in London and consulted George’s solicitors about the 
law of treasure-trove. I did not want to let myself in 
for a term of penal servitude. 

“It goes to the state, of course,” said Josephine. 

That was exactly what I was afraid of; but I was 
not going to let Aunt Josephine see that she had got 
the better of us. 

“The difficulty is,” I said, “that there are so many 
states. There is the original British Empire.” Jose¬ 
phine growled at the very mention of that. “There’s 
the Northern Irish State, established in six counties.” 
Josephine’s face got so red at the thought of Ulster 
that I hastened to scratch it off the list. “But, of 
course, they can’t put in a claim unless the money is in 
their territory. There is also the Irish Free State, an 
excellent body I am assured. I dare say they would 
be glad of a windfall of twenty thousand pounds.” 


198 


FOUND MONEY 


“The money,” said Josephine, “will go to the Irish 
Republic.” 

“I wish you'd give me time to finish what I am 
saying,” I said. “I was just coming to the Republic. 
What I wanted to ask you is where the Republican 
Chancellor of the Exchequer lives, in case we want to 
hand him a check.” 

“None of your silly old states will get a penny of 
my money,” said Genevieve decidedly. “They can't, 
for nobody knows where it is except Mr. Farnham 
and me; and neither of us will tell.” 

Josephine looked from one to the other of us and 
launched an ultimatum. 

“It’s somewhere in this neighborhood,” she said, 
“or you wouldn't be here. Well, I am in no particular 
hurry, and I've plenty of men. I shall go on digging 
up this camp until I find it. Quartus wasn't such a 
fool as to bury sovereigns in a bog where they’d be 
sucked down, and the only firm ground about here 
is where the camp stands.” 

She might dig up the whole southern end of the 
camp, the only part in her possession, if she liked. 
Hardy, if he were as keen as she was, might dig up 
his territory. I did not in the least mind where they 
dug or how much they dug so long as they kept clear 


FOUND MONEY 


199 


of the men’s dining-hall and the No Man’s Land be¬ 
tween their forces. I was not much afraid that either 
party would get the chance of digging there. I felt 
quite sure that Josephine shared Hardy’s dislike of 
fratricidal strife, and would not strain the loyalty of 
her soldiers by asking them to fight. But without 
risking a fight she could not take possession of the 
men’s dining-hall, nor could Hardy. 

“Well,” I said, “it will be a long job digging up 
the whole of that camp; but if you like to undertake 
it you can. Only I shouldn’t do it if I were you, un¬ 
less I were quite sure that the money is here.” 

“It’s here,” said Josephine. “Now that I think 
the whole business over I’m quite convinced that it’s 
here.” 

So, I recollected, was Hardy. I wondered what it 
was which made them both so certain. I had been 
questioned and cross-questioned a great deal. I felt it 
was about time that I began to take a turn at asking 
for information that I wanted. 

“I wonder if you’d mind telling me,” I said, “why 
your brother buried that money. It seems such an odd 
thing to do when he might have invested it.” 

Josephine was not, I felt, paying much attention 
to what I was saying, but I went on: 


200 


FOUND MONEY 


“Or he might have left it on deposit at his bank. 
Do you know, I don’t think I ever before came across 
a case of a man who buried, actually concealed in the 
the ground, a sum of twenty thousand pounds.” 

Josephine was not listening to me. She was get¬ 
ting more and more fidgety. I soon understood why. 
Her understudy was still speaking fluently from the 
seat of the motor. She may not have had Josephine’s 
capacity for sustained oratory, but she was doing very 
well, and the men were cheering her. Josephine did 
not like that. 

“Perhaps,” I said, “you’d rather get back to your 
speech now. We can have a talk about our business 
later on. Genevieve and I will be at the rectory. You’ll 
find us there any time to-morrow that you happen to 
have finished your speech.” 

“Genevieve will stay here with me,” said Josephine. 

“No, I won’t,” said Genevieve flatly. 

I expected an outburst from Josephine. I think 
there would have been one, for Genevieve spoke in a 
way which would have irritated the gentlest aunt. I 
can only call her tone impudent. But at that very mo¬ 
ment there was a particularly loud burst of cheering 
from the men gathered at the far side of the wagon¬ 
ette. They had been cheering a great deal during our 


FOUND MONEY 


201 


conversation, but this time they were louder and more 
enthusiastic than before. It was very annoying for 
Josephine to hear another woman, a mere substitute, a 
wretched stop-gap, being cheered, when by rights all 
the applause should have been hers. It was not in her 
to submit to that sort of thing. Without saying an¬ 
other word either to Genevieve or me she turned and 
strode off toward the motor-car. We watched her 
climb into it, pull the other lady down into her seat, 
and start again at her interrupted oration. 

“I think,” said Genevieve, “that we’d better be 
getting back to the rectory while we can.” 

I quite agreed with her. She had very bravely de¬ 
fied her aunt once. I was not sure that she could go 
on defying her. And Josephine had, I suppose, a legal 
right to take charge of her own niece. 

Lucy must have been watching for us out of some 
window. She came hurrying to meet us as we crossed 
the lawn. There was a look of eager inquiry in her 
face. She expected, perhaps, she certainly hoped, that 
I would announce my engagement to Genevieve, take 
the girl by the hand, and lead her up for some kind of 
sisterly benediction. I had no such announcement to 
make. I had been far too busy and too much excited 
to think of love-making. I know that people have 


202 


FOUND MONEY 


been engaged and even married during the war, but 
how they managed it, I do not know. I should want 
quiet and a surrounding of sunshine, birds and flowers. 

I met Lucy’s look of inquiry with a stony stare. 
She had no right to meet me in that way with notes 
of interrogation all over her face and anticipation in 
her eyes. I was afraid that Genevieve might notice 
Lucy’s looks, might be puzzled, might even be embar¬ 
rassed. There is nothing in the world more tender 
than the delicacy of a young girl’s feelings. Women 
like Lucy, coarsened by six years’ association with 
George Stubbington, ought to be far more careful than 
they are about what they say, how they behave, and 
even what they think in the company of young girls. 

I glanced hurriedly at Genevieve, fearing to see 
that she was shocked and disgusted by Lucy’s behav¬ 
ior. It was almost incredible to me, but Genevieve 
was meeting Lucy’s gaze of inquiry with an answering 
look of intelligence. She even shook her head slightly 
and smiled. I did not know and could not imagine 
what she meant, but I felt suddenly embarrassed. I 
rather think I actually blushed. I certainly felt ex¬ 
ceedingly angry with Lucy. 

“Johnny,” said Lucy, with an assumption of ex¬ 
treme cheerfulness, “I’ve just had a telegram from 


FOUND MONEY 


203 

George to say that he's coming over by the night mail 
to-night. That’s one piece of good news anyway.” 

The suggestion was that I had deprived her of an¬ 
other legitimate cause for rejoicing by my dilatory 
habits and fondness for philandering. George was 
prompt, and therefore satisfactory. 

“I don’t call that good news at all,” I said. “In 
fact, if anything could make things worse than they 
are at present it would be to have George butting in.” 

Lucy opened her eyes wide. She was more aston¬ 
ished than shocked. No one had ever spoken about 
George in that way before, certainly not in his wife’s 
hearing. 

“But,” she said, “George is a business man, and 
you’re not, Johnny dear. I know you’re very clever and 
write most beautiful books, but that’s not the same as 
being a business man. 

“It’s just because George is a business man,” I 
said, “that he’ll be thoroughly out of place here. Out 
of place and a great deal worse. He’ll make a most 
infernal muddle of Genevieve’s affairs.” 

We were still standing in the middle of the lawn. 
While I was speaking Canon Sylvestre came out of the 
garden gate. He looked hot and was muddy from 
head to foot. Lucy choked down whatever retort she 


204 


FOUND MONEY 


meant to make to my attack on George when she saw 
Canon Sylvestre coming. She has her faults, but she 
is not the sort of woman to go on with a family quarrel 
in public. 

“Here’s Canon Sylvestre/’ she said. “No wonder 
he looks tired. He’s been digging at those old stones 
all the morning.” 

“Ah, Farnham,” said Canon Sylvestre, “I’ve done 
a good morning’s work. I’ve got all the Ogam stones 
dug up and ready for moving. I’ve just sent Jimmy, 
the boot boy, down to the camp to tell General Hardy 
that he can send up his motor-lorry as soon as he likes. 
You’ll be happier when we’ve got them all back in their 
original places, won’t you?” 

He beamed at me and smiled at Lucy and Genevieve. 

“And now,” he went on, “I’ll run away and get 
rid of a little of the mud.” 

He held out his hands for us to see. They were 
covered with damp clay. His boots were clogged with 
it, and it was spread thickly over his trousers. Still 
smiling, he toddled across the lawn toward the house. 

“Such a sweet, innocent old darling,” said Lucy, 
“and he did work hard this morning. But, Johnny 
dear, why do you want to have those stones taken 
away out of his garden?” 


FOUND MONEY 


205 


"I don’t want them taken away,” I said. “If he 
chooses to build a rockery or a pigsty with them I 
shan’t mind in the least.” 

“But he said you wanted them moved,” said Lucy. 
“He told me that three times. I couldn’t quite make 
out what he was saying, but he seemed to think you’d 
some religious reason for wanting to do it.” 

“I haven’t,” I said. 

“I couldn’t see,” said Lucy, “what religion could 
possibly have to do with a lot of old stones, but still I 
was a little afraid—just on account of your being so 
literary, and clever and all that, and not at all an 
ordinary person—” 

“What on earth were you afraid of, Lucy?” 

“Johnny dear,” she said anxiously, “you haven’t 
turned Buddhist, or Roman Catholic, or Christian 
Scientist, or anything like that, have you?” 

I dimly grasped at what was passing through 
Lucy’s mind. “The heathen in his blindness bows 
down to—Ogam stones,” I hastened to reassure her. 

“I haven’t turned anything,” I said. “I’m exactly 
what I always was, a semi-detached member of the 
Church of England.” 

I do not know what Genevieve thought of all this; 
but she threw in a remark which confused the whole 


206 


FOUND MONEY 


matter so much that all further discussion of my re¬ 
ligion became impossible. 

“Aunt Josephine,” she said, “once used to play a 
harmonium in a Sunday-school.” 

“But,” said Lucy feebly, “what has that got to do 
with Canon Sylvestre’s stones?” 

It had as much to do with them as my religion has, 
or Buddhism, or Christian Science, or Roman Cathol¬ 
icism. But I did not attempt to explain all that to 
Lucy. 

“Wait till George comes,” I said, “and ask him 
about it.” 

“I will,” said Lucy. 


CHAPTER XVI 


FTER luncheon we sat round the study fire and 



1 V Canon Sylvestre wondered why the motor- 
lorry, which he expected, did not arrive. I explained 
that Hardy was not in a position to send lorries rush¬ 
ing about the country. 

“The Republican Army,” I said, “is encamped be¬ 
tween us and him. I don’t think he could get a lorry 
through if he tried.” 

“And Aunt Josephine,” said Genevieve, “is mak¬ 
ing speeches outside his window.” 

“So he can’t be expected to remember anything 
about us or our affairs,” I said. 

“But I thought he’d certainly remember about the 
Ogam stones,” said Canon Sylvestre. 

We discussed the curious position in the camp, 
fitfully, and, so far as I was concerned, sleepily, till 
four o’clock. Then Hardy walked in. 

I had wronged him. He may have forgotten about 
the Ogam stones, but he was not so utterly absorbed in 
his own affairs as to forget about the buried money. 


207 


208 


FOUND MONEY 


The moment he entered the room I saw that he wanted 
to talk to me, and I knew that there was only one sub¬ 
ject which really interested us both. 

Unfortunately I was not able to give him a chance 
of speaking privately, and he was unwilling to discuss 
his business in public. Lucy and Genevieve, who may 
have been finding the afternoon a little dull, sat and 
talked to Hardy, while Canon Sylvestre went away to 
persuade Mrs. Hegarty to give us afternoon tea. He 
came back after a while and confessed that he had 
failed. 

Afternoon tea was not a meal that Mrs. Hegarty 
was accustomed to, and rather than provide it she went 
out for the rest of the afternoon. Lucy and Gene¬ 
vieve then went off to get the tea, but Hardy and I 
were no better off than before. Canon Sylvestre sat 
with us and gave us a long Biblical lecture. He de¬ 
veloped a theory that the Sinn Fein leaders were like 
Absalom and Ahitophel, and that the bishops and 
clergy of his own church were playing the part in ear¬ 
nest which Hushai pretended to play in the Old Testa¬ 
ment story. He quoted the rather nasty remarks made 
by Absalom to Hushai, and applied them to some lead¬ 
ing Irish churchmen. I do not profess to understand 
Irish politics well enough to follow the comparison. 


FOUND MONEY 


209 

Hardy, who is well up in politics, does not know the 
story of Absalom. 

Lucy and Genevieve brought in the tea and some 
excellent soda-bread which they had found in a cup¬ 
board in the kitchen. It was probably not meant for 
our use, and Mrs. Hegarty must have been very angry 
when she found we had eaten it. 

At six o’clock Hardy rose and said good night to 
us all. He was anxious about his men, and wanted to 
get back to the camp. He did not fear an actual 
attack, although darkness must have put an end to 
Josephine’s speech, and the Republican Army had 
nothing particular to do. What made him nervous was 
the thought that Josephine might be seducing his men 
from their allegiance by promises of larger pay. 

“I don’t know whether she has any money or not,” 
he said, “but if she has she’ll bribe my men with it. 
She’s a most unscrupulous woman. I don’t think she 
has much money, but I can’t be sure. She gets it in all 
sorts of ways. Sometimes she levies what she calls 
taxes on people. At other times she simply robs.” 

“Nearly the same thing, isn’t it?” I said. 

“And if she saw any other way of getting cash”— 
Hardy looked at me and nodded meaningly —“any 
other way, she wouldn’t hesitate for one instant. 


210 


FOUND MONEY 


“Walk a bit of the way back with me,” he said. 

He was putting on his overcoat as he spoke. 

“You look as if you wanted a little fresh air.” 

I did not want fresh air in the least. No sensible 
man wants the kind of air that is to be found out-of- 
doors after dark in the middle of October. But I had 
seen all along that Hardy wanted to talk to me, and 
his hint about Josephine’s financial policy made me 
want to talk to him. 

We lit our pipes in the porch and set out for the 
camp along the highroad. This was a roundabout 
way, but better than attempting the short-cut across 
the bog on a dark night. 

“I hear,” said Hardy, “that you had an interview 
with the Eloquent Josephine this morning.” 

“That’s quite true,” I said, “but I don’t know how 
you heard it.” 

“Oh, one hears things,” said Hardy. “In Ireland 
one hears everything that there is, and a great deal 
that there isn’t. Did you happen to find out whether 
she really is Quartus Wilbred’s sister?” 

“She is,” I said. “Miss Wilbred, the daughter, 
Genevieve you know, recognized her as her aunt at 
once.” 

“I thought so,” said Hardy, “but I wasn’t quite 


FOUND MONEY 


211 


sure. She always kept the relationship as dark as she 
could, naturally. No one would want to swagger 
about having Wilbred for a brother.” 

“For that matter/’ I replied, “I know very few 
people who would care to claim her as a sister.” 

“I certainly shouldn’t,” said Hardy. “But all the 
same, she’s rather a clever woman. Now, do you think 
she tumbled to the fact that you’re here after Wilbred’s 
money?” 

“She did. She tumbled to that straight away.” 

“I thought she would. As I said, she’s by no 
means a fool, and she must have wondered just as the 
rest of us did what Wilbred did with the money.” 

“She threatens to dig up the whole camp until she 
finds it,” I said, “and when she does she’s going to 
make it over to the Irish Republic.” 

“That means that she’ll offer my men five pounds 
a week each, and they’ll every one of them leave me 
and join her. I dare say she’ll offer me as much as 
twenty pounds, and probably a bonus of one hundred 
pounds or so down. But I’d a great deal rather have 
the ten per cent, you offered me.” 

I had not offered him ten per cent., but I began 
to think I had better do so. Aunt Josephine was evi¬ 
dently an incorruptible patriot, who would use all the 


212 


FOUND MONEY 


money for the benefit of her cause, not leaving a penny 
for Genevieve. Hardy was willing to go shares. 

“The question is,” said Hardy, “is she likely to get 
the money by digging in her part of the camp?” 

He made that remark in such a tone of casual 
friendliness that I knew he must be fishing for valu¬ 
able information. I was not going to give it to him 
if I could help it. I really did not know the exact 
position of the money, but I did know where the group 
of Ogam stones originally stood. It was the only part 
of poor Wilbred’s secret which remained to me. I 
did not want to give it away. 

“She’ll have to do a lot of digging,” I said, “if she 
turns up the whole of her part of the camp.” 

That answer did not satisfy Hardy. He stopped 
and took me by the arm. 

“Look here, Farnham,” he said, “there’s no use 
our beating about the bush. Your position is perfectly 
plain, and you’ve got to make the best of it. The Elo¬ 
quent Josephine may get that money, or I may get it. 
You certainly can’t, for we won’t either of us let you 
put a spade into the ground. See that?” 

I did see that. It was one of those obvious things 
which one can hardly help seeing. 

“If Josephine gets it, neither you nor that pretty 


FOUND MONEY 


213 

little girl of yours will ever touch a penny. That 
ought to be clear to you.” 

“Yes,” I said, “that’s clear too. Indeed, Josephine 
herself explained it to me this morning. She said the 
money belonged to the State.” 

“Whereas if I get it I shall only take ten per cent., 
and you can marry the girl and close on the other 
ninety per cent. I declare to goodness, Farnham, 
that’s far too generous an offer. But I always was 
a fool about money. Now will you tell me where the 
stuff is?” 

“I’m sorry I can’t,” I said. “I don’t know.” 

“Rot. You know all right, and if I knew, I could 
manage to head off Josephine. She and I are going 
to have a conference this evening at eight to explore 
all possible avenues for the avoidance of fratricidal 
strife and that kind of thing. We shall settle to have 
a truce, of course. Conferences always end that sort 
of way when everybody on both sides is scared stiff 
with the idea of fighting. What we shall spend our 
time talking about is the exact terms of the truce—• 
what I’m to keep and what Josephine is to have.” 

Hardy is wasted as a simple soldier. He ought to 
be a diplomat, and if the Irish Republic has any sense 
it will make him ambassador in Petrograd, or some 


214 


FOUND MONEY 


other difficult place. His plan for dealing with Jose¬ 
phine was masterly. It was not in the least likely that 
she would suspect him of knowing anything about 
Wilbred’s money. That put him in a strong position 
to start with. He meant to haggle with Josephine for 
an hour or two. 

“All women like haggling,” he said, “and I shall 
give in to her bit by bit. I shall let her think that she’s 
getting the better of me through sheer determination 
and force of character. I’ll let her have a great deal 
more than she expects, and in the end I’ll ask nothing 
except to be allowed to keep one small bit of the camp, 
just to save my face. She’ll agree to that, and the bit 
of the camp I mean to keep is the place where the 
money is.” 

“Ah,” I said, “then you know which bit that is.” 

“No, I don’t,” said Hardy. “I expect you to tell 
me that, and I think you will if you consider the whole 
matter. Damn it all, Famham. Don’t you see that’s 
your only chance of getting the money? You and I 
and half a dozen of my fellows can get the gold safely 
a ways in sacks and whisk it off in a lorry while Jose¬ 
phine is digging trenches all over the place. Think it 
over, Farnham, and you’ll see that I’m making you a 
good offer.” 


FOUND MONEY 215 

We sat down on a low wall at the side of the road. 
Hardy ostentatiously turned his back on me. I thought 
about what he said, and the more I thought of it the 
more convinced I became that he was offering me the 
best chance I was likely to get of obtaining Gene¬ 
vieve’s fortune for her. After all, ten per cent, is not a 
very heavy charge. She would have had to pay a 
great deal more than that in Death Duties if the money 
had come to her in a more regular way. And I some¬ 
how felt that I could trust Hardy. The man was a 
soldier of fortune, but men of that kind—Dugald Dal- 
gettie, for instance, or Ludovic of the Scar—have their 
own sense of honor. Besides, as he explained to me, I 
was perfectly helpless. 

“Very well,” I said at last. “As I said before, I 
can’t tell you exactly where the money is, but it’s some¬ 
where either in the men’s dining-room, the cook¬ 
house, or the square of ground at the back of the din¬ 
ing-room.” 

“Can’t you go nearer than that? That’s a pretty 
big lot of ground—an acre, I should think. It won’t 
be easy to dig up all that without Josephine spotting 

_ ft 

me. 

“That,” I said, “is the best I can do for you. If 
old Sylvestre hadn’t moved those Ogam stones—” 


216 


FOUND MONEY 


“Oh, that’s how the stones come into it,” said 
Hardy. “I was always a bit bothered about them. 
They somehow didn’t seem to fit. We were to have 
put them back, weren’t we? Couldn’t we do that 
still?” 

“No use,” I said. “Unless I got each stone back 
exactly where it was originally, they’d be no use.” 

“Well, it can’t be helped. But what an interfering 
old fool that parson is. Anyhow, I know enough to 
help me in my dealings with Josephine to-night. I’ll 
keep the dining-room and its immediate surroundings, 
and she can have the whole of the rest of the camp. 
That’ll be a jolly good bargain for her, and I expect 
she’ll agree to it, especially if I give way to her little 
by little and let her think that she’s dragging each 
inch out of me as if it were one of my back teeth. I 
shall have to spend the whole evening listening to her 
making speeches, and heaven knows that won’t be 
pleasant, but it’s all in a good cause.” 

There seemed no point in my going any farther 
along the road with Hardy, so I shook hands with him 
and said good night. He tramped off cheerfully to¬ 
ward the camp. I could hear him whistling long after 
I lost sight of him in the dark. 

I did not go back to the rectory at once. I wanted 


FOUND MONEY 


217 


a little time to think over what I had done before I 
told Genevieve about it. I lit my pipe and sat down 
again on the wall. On the whole, I was comforted by 
my reflections. Things had gone against me from the 
start, and what looked like a perfectly simple piece of 
business had turned out to be amazingly difficult. I 
found myself at last in a very awkward position, and it 
seemed that the way I had chosen was certainly the 
best way out of it. I knocked the ashes out of my pipe 
and was just going to rise to my feet when I was 
caught from behind and pulled backward over the wall. 

My legs flew up in the air. The tobacco ash from 
my pipe was scattered over my face and into my eyes. 
I made a wild grasp at the wall, detached a couple of 
stones, and fell backward. My head hit the ground 
first. Fortunately it was soft, very muddy ground , at 
the bottom of a ditch. I neither broke my neck nor 
was stunned. I struggled, and a heavy man immedi¬ 
ately seated himself on my chest. Somebody else 
knelt on my legs, and he hurt me, for his knees were 
rather hard. Two more men caught my arms and 
spread them out, leaning heavily on my wrists. 

Then a man standing behind my head said “Hands 
up,” and I felt what I supposed to be the barrel of a 
revolver pressed against my forehead. 


2 18 


FOUND MONEY 


‘Tut them up,” he said again, “or I shoot.” 

That seemed an extremely silly thing to say to me. 
There were two men leaning their whole weight on 
my wrists. Unless I had been a Samson or a Hercules 
I could not have raised my hands an inch. 

After what seemed to me quite a long time the 
gentleman with the revolver moved it off my forehead 
and gave me another order. 

“Get up,” he said. 

I could not do that either, and he ought to have 
known it. The night was not so dark as to prevent 
his seeing that at least four men were sitting, kneeling 
or leaning on various parts of my body. 

Fortunately the ruffian who sat on my chest 
seemed to have more sense than his leader. 

“I don’t know,” he said, “will he be able to stand 
up, without I get off him first?” 

“You’re quite right there,” I said. “Before I get 
up you’ll have to move. And half a dozen other people 
will have to move too.” 

“Let the whole of yees get up off him,” said the 
man with the revolver. “But mind now,” he went on 
to me, “no tricks or you know what you’ll get.” 

He brandished his weapon as he spoke, just to 
make sure than I knew he had it. I had not the 


FOUND MONEY 


219 


slightest inclination to play any tricks. I should not 
even have liked to ask him a riddle or recite a limerick. 
But I was very much afraid that my best behavior 
might not save me. Judging by the way that man 
waved his revolver, I should think that the Eloquent 
Josephine’s soldiers kill more people by accident than 
they do on purpose. 


) 


CHAPTER XVII 


FTER a little more argument and some addi- 



jljl tional warnings I was allowed to get up. I was 
then marched down to the camp and shut up in a small 
perfectly bare room with a single window very high 
up in one of the walls. I took it to be one of the cells 
in which the English military authorities confined 
their prisoners. The only information which my 
guards gave me was that I had been arrested by order 
of the Irish Republic. I had guessed as much before, 
for I recognized that my cell was in the part of the 
camp held by the Eloquent Josephine. At first I was 
exceedingly angry, as most men would be if deprived 
of their liberty suddenly and without good reason. I 
tramped across and across my little room, not more 
than three steps each way. I tried kicking the door, 
but it was too strong to be broken, and nobody took 
any notice of the noise I made. I tried shouting a re¬ 
quest to be taken before some officer or into the pres¬ 
ence of Miss Josephine Wilbred. Nobody made any 
answer, and I began to doubt whether anybody heard 


220 


FOUND MONEY 


221 


me. After I had raged for about an hour my temper 
began to cool down. I realized that I could do nothing 
to help myself, and must make the best of things till 
somebody came to me. 

There was no chair, table or bed in my cell, indeed, 
no furniture at all. The best I could do' was to sit on 
the floor in a corner with my legs stretched out 
straight in front of me and smoke my pipe. Fortu¬ 
nately I had a quantity of tobacco and a box of matches, 
which was very nearly full. The tobacco helped to 
soothe me. I reflected that it was not likely that I 
should be killed at once. If Josephine had wanted to 
have me murdered the thing could have been done 
quite easily in the ditch after I had tumbled off the 
wall. There was a chance that I might be condemned 
to death by some kind of tribunal after a trial. But 
it was not likely that I should be tried till next morn¬ 
ing, and my execution—if that was decided on— 
would surely be deferred till the day after. That gave 
me thirty-six hours, and a great deal might happen in 
thirty-six hours. I had a feeling that Hardy would 
make an effort to rescue me when he heard of my 
plight, and I derived considerable comfort from the 
thought that George Stubbington would arrive next 
day. George was a man of solid obstinacy as well as 


222 


FOUND MONEY 


solid sense. I did not think that a windy enthusiast 
like Josephine would find it easy to baffle him. 

A few minutes after ten o’clock the door of my cell 
was opened, and Josephine herself came in with an 
electric torch in her hand. By that time I had com¬ 
pletely got over my bad temper, and had argued my¬ 
self into thinking that my position was not really per¬ 
ilous. It might, if Josephine were as terrific as I 
hoped, turn out to be actually amusing. A woman in 
the grasp of an enthusiasm is nearly always solemn 
enough to be amusing to a man with a sense of the 
ridiculous. 

I stood up and took off my hat politely. 

“Fm sorry,” I said, “that I can’t offer you a seat 
except on the floor, but perhaps you’d like to lean 
against the w T all while you’re here. If so, try the one 
on your right. The other three are all damp, and I 
wouldn’t like you to get rheumatism.” 

Josephine was alone and had no weapon that I 
could see. I suppose I might have sprung at her and 
got the better of a rough-and-tumble struggle, but I 
was unfortunately handicapped by the traditions of 
English civilization. I could not bring myself to throt¬ 
tle an elderly woman without more provocation than 
I had so far received. If she began making political 


FOUND MONEY 


223 


speeches to me, I should enjoy them at first, I hoped, 
but at the end of four or five hours of impassioned 
oratory I might very well have choked her. 

“I presume,” she said, “that you know why Eve 
sent for you.” 

Nothing could have been better than her tone and 
manner. She might have been an oriental queen of 
pre-Christian times and I a slave who had been caught 
pilfering. I felt that I ought to fall prone and beat 
my forehead on the ground seven times before reply¬ 
ing. 

“I don’t know in the least why you sent for me,” 
I said. “But of course I quite realize that you did. 
Your messengers made their meaning plain. I under¬ 
stood from their manner that you really wanted me.” 

“If you like to pretend to be stupid I can’t stop 
you,” she said. “But I don’t mind telling you exactly 
what I want. Where did my brother Quartus bury 
that money?” 

“That,” I said, “I’m afraid I can’t tell you.” 

“You’ll stay where you are till you do,” said Jose¬ 
phine. “I shan’t starve you, but—” 

“Thanks,” I said. “I should be glad of something 
to eat at once. I’ve had nothing since afternoon tea, 
and not very much then.” 


224 


FOUND MONEY 


I could not see her face while she talked to me, for 
she kept the light of her torch turned on me and stood 
in darkness herself. That placed me at a disadvantage. 
I could only guess by the tone of her voice what effect 
my words had on her. But I had little difficulty in 
realizing that she was becoming irritated. 

“But,” she snapped, “Fll make you exceedingly un¬ 
comfortable. You’re wet and muddy now.” The light 
traveled up and down my clothes while she scanned 
them. “Well, wet and muddy you will stay till you tell 
me what I want to know.” 

That would be most unpleasant. I had hoped for 
a bed and at least a blanket in which to wrap myself. 

“You’ve slightly mistaken my meaning,” I said. 
“I didn’t tell you I wouldn’t tell you where the money 
is. What I said w r as that I couldn’t.” 

“Nonsense.” 

“I need scarcely add,” I went on, “that as Gene¬ 
vieve’s aunt you’ve a perfect right to know where that 
money is. I’m only an outsider. You are the natural 
guardian of your brother’s child and her fortune. But 
I can’t tell you where the money is because I don’t 
know.” 

“You came here to find it,” said Josephine, “so 
you must know where it is.” 


FOUND MONEY 


225 


“I did come here to find it; but you can’t suppose 
I’d stay here an hour after I’d found it. Do be rea¬ 
sonable, Miss Wilbred. Surely it must be plain that if 
I knew where the money was I’d have taken it and 
gone away. I wouldn’t have stayed here to be cap¬ 
tured by you and shut up in a cell in wet clothes.” 

That reasoning evidently produced some effect on 
her mind. She stood still without speaking for nearly 
two minutes, which showed that I’d deeply impressed 
her. I don’t suppose that she’s been silent for so long 
at a time for years, except in bed at night, and even 
then she probably talks in her sleep. 

“But my brother must have told you where he put 
the money,” she said at last. 

Once more I felt that the time had come to speak 
the truth. It had served me well all through my con¬ 
nection with Genevieve’s troublesome fortune, and I 
thought it might get me out of the awkward position 
I was in then. I did not, of course, mean to tell quite 
the whole truth. I intended to practise what theolo¬ 
gians call economy, which means telling as much of 
the truth as is good for the hearer. 

“Your brother,” I said, “did tell me exactly where 
the money was. He said I was to come to Knock- 
croghery, to stand with my back to the north wall of 


226 FOUND MONEY 

the church tower, to look for a ruin near the river 
bank—” 

“Ah,” said Josephine with deep interest. 

“And to walk straight from where I stood to the 
ruin. On the way I should come to a group of Ogam 
stones.” 

“Yes,” she said, “yes. Where?” 

“On the line between the church and the ruin,” I 
said. “I was to examine the stones and find one with 
a particular inscription of which he had made a copy.” 

“Yes, yes. But where are the stones ?” 

“Gone,” I said. “The line from the church to the 
ruin runs right through this camp. The camp, I pre¬ 
sume wasn’t here in your brother’s time. He couldn’t 
foresee that the soldiers would come. But they did 
and now the stones— Well, I suppose they’d have been 
a nuisance standing about in the middle of the camp. 
I gathered from the directions which your brother 
supplied that the stones were scattered about over 
about half an acre of ground.” 

Once more she stood silent. I felt quite sorry for 
her. To be cut off from speech must be nearly as try¬ 
ing for that sort of woman as it would be for me to 
be deprived of tobacco. 

“Your brother,” I said, “was most anxious to be 


FOUND MONEY 


227 


able to identify the particular stone under which he 
buried the money. He had an exact copy of the in¬ 
scription tattooed on his leg.” 

I was treating her generously, far more generously 
than she was treating me. I need not have given her 
that information about the tattooing on her brother's 
leg, for I had already told her quite enough to con¬ 
vince her that I did not know where the money was. 

“I suppose,” she said doubtfully, “that you’re tell¬ 
ing me the truth.” 

“On my honor,” I said, “every word I said to you 
is literally true. But if you have any doubt about it 
I’ll show you the papers which your brother left be¬ 
hind him.” 

I always carried Wilbred’s papers of directions and 
his sketch of the Ogam stone about in my letter-case. 
I have an incurable habit of losing papers, which take 
to themselves wings and fly if I put them in a drawer 
or a box. My one chance is to keep them in my pocket. 
I’m not sure that I should not adopt Wilbred’s plan 
and have copies made on different parts of my body 
if I lived long in Ireland. Pockets are by no means 
safe in that country. 

I took out my letter-case and handed it to Jose¬ 
phine. She must have been very eager to get that 


228 


FOUND MONEY 


money, for her hand was shaking when she touched 
mine. She gave me the electric torch to hold while she 
examined the papers. 

“You can keep them if you like,” I said. “I don’t 
want them back. They’re not the slightest use to me.” 

That also was true. I knew all Wilbred’s direc¬ 
tions off by heart and I had identified the stone I 
wanted in Canon Sylvestre’s garden, where it was no 
use to me or any one else. 

“I hope,” I said politely, “that you’ll be able to find 
what you want. It’s not much more than three miles 
from the church to the ruin, and if you dig a trench 
about one hundred fifty yards wide, and say six feet 
deep right along the line, you’re pretty sure to come 
on the money. But perhaps your brother may have 
gone a little deeper. Say eight feet deep to make 
sure.” 

I was sorry afterward that I said that. It irritated 
her more than I should have expected. I found that 
out a moment later. 

“Now that I’ve told you what you asked,” I said, 
“I suppose you’ll let me go.” 

“I’ll do no such thing. You’ll stay here till I’ve 
made sure that you’ve told the truth. For all I know 
that whole story may be an invention. I wouldn’t 


FOUND MONEY 229 

trust any man who has been associated with my 
brother.” 

That was hard on me considering how very slightly 
I knew Wilbred. 

“The very fact that you are mixed up in this busi¬ 
ness at all,” she added, “proves that you are an utterly 
dishonest man.” 

“Even if I am,” I said, “you’re surely not going to 
keep me here while you dig up half County Roscom¬ 
mon.” 

The digging of the trench, I suggested, seemed to 
be the only way of proving whether I had spoken the 
truth, and Josephine would be years over that job. 

“Please,” I said. “Please be reasonable.” 

Up to that point, I confess, Josephine had been a 
little disappointing. She was stem, determined, al¬ 
most fierce; but she was concise and businesslike. My 
brother-in-law, George Stubbington, could not have 
been more businesslike in dealing with a defaulting 
clerk. I had not enjoyed a single taste of her peculiar 
quality. But my appeal to her to be reasonable sud¬ 
denly roused her, shook her out of what must have 
been a pose, and restored her to her proper, better self. 

“Reasonable,” she said. “You ask me to be reason¬ 
able. Reasonable with an Englishman.” 


230 


FOUND MONEY 


I can not see why it is wrong to be reasonable with 
an Englishman. But Josephine evidently thought it 
was and had made up her mind not to sin in that par¬ 
ticular way. Nothing could have been less reasonable 
than the speech she made to me. 

She began with an account of the eighteenth cen¬ 
tury Penal Laws, making some scathing remarks about 
broken treaties. Then she worked herself up into a 
really nasty temper about the suppression of Ireland’s 
commerce and manufactures. Then she recited a list 
of martyred patriots, most of them quite unknown to 
me. The thought of these heroes excited her so much 
that she walked up and down my cell while she spoke 
of them. She walked so quickly that I had the great¬ 
est difficulty in keeping the light on her, and I did not 
want to miss any of her gestures. After that she 
jumped a few centuries and got down to the triumph 
of Sinn Fein during the last few years. Her rhetoric 
far surpassed in vindictive exultation that of the song 
which Deborah sang to Barak. I enjoyed it thor¬ 
oughly. But when she got down to current politics I 
began to be bored. She had been at me for the best 
part of an hour, and I felt I could not stand much more 
of it. Fortunately some instinct warned her that I 
was going mad and might become dangerous. She 


FOUND MONEY 


231 


stopped almost as abruptly as she had begun, snatched 
the electric torch out of my hand, pranced out of the 
cell and slammed the door behind her. 

I was left alone in the dark but very well pleased. 
I had seen and heard Josephine at her best. I had, for 
the first time in my life, got a glimmer of understand¬ 
ing at the Irish question. A people which breeds 
women capable of performances like Josephine’s would 
not settle down peaceably even in Paradise. 

After a while I began to realize again that I was 
exceedingly uncomfortable and I regretted that I had 
spoken the truth as I did. If I had lied confidently, 
told Josephine that the money was under the tower of 
Canon Sylvestre’s church, or sunk half a mile up the 
Shannon she would very likely have believed me and 
let me go. Then, by the time she found out that I had 
deceived her I might, with Hardy’s help, have secured 
the gold and escaped to England with it. 

However, it turned out that Josephine was not so 
inhumane as I thought her. Just as my spirits were at 
their lowest, through hunger and damp, the door of 
my cell opened again. One of Josephine’s braves came 
in. He looked about fifteen years of age, and was 
armed to the teeth. He brought me a cup of strong 
sweet tea and two thick slices of bread. I do not like 


232 


FOUND MONEY 


sweet tea, and as a rule I despise dry bread, but I was 
uncommonly glad to get that meal. 

Half an hour later two other military infants came 
in dragging a mattress and three army blankets with 
them. When they left I was able to make myself tol¬ 
erably comfortable. I certainly might have been much 
worse off. In some ways I was worse off in the hos¬ 
pital to which they sent me when I was slightly 
wounded. There they washed me in the most insult¬ 
ing manner before putting me to bed, and woke 
me up at five next morning to wash me again. Jose¬ 
phine’s men did not do that. 


CHAPTER XVIII 



T this point I drop out of the story for a while. 


l \ Hitherto I have been able to write in the first 
person because I had the good luck to be present when 
anything of importance was happening. If Josephine 
had not captured me and shut me up I should no doubt 
have been in Canon Sylvestre’s rectory and witnessed 
what happened on the second night of Lucy’s stay 
there. Then I should have been able to go on telling 
what I saw and heard. Now I have to rely on other 
people’s narratives. The best I can do is to piece to¬ 
gether what I have been told by Canon Sylvestre, by 
Lucy and by Genevieve. Fortunately they are all re¬ 
liable people and are all quite willing to talk freely to 
me and to answer any questions I ask. If I could have 
persuaded George Stubbington to relate his experi¬ 
ences I should have a fairly complete story. Unfortu¬ 
nately he regards the whole business as one of those 
painful and discreditable things which it is better not 
to talk about. His reticence leaves certain gaps in the 
story which I fear I shall never be able to fill up. 


233 


2 34 


FOUND MONEY 


No one in the rectory felt any surprise or alarm 
when I did not return in time for the evening meal 
which Canon Sylvestre called supper, and his house¬ 
keeper—keeping up her protest against afternoon tea 
—called tea. It was taken for granted that I had 
walked the whole way to the camp with Hardy and 
stayed there to dine with him. Lucy was a little dis¬ 
appointed. She hoped that I would have been eager 
to spend the evening with Genevieve. Perhaps Gene¬ 
vieve was a little disappointed too. I should like to 
think so. The evening passed slowly for the two 
ladies because Canon Sylvestre showed them archeo¬ 
logical books, and during that kind of entertainment 
the hands of the clock do little more than crawl. 
Canon Sylvestre was happy enough. Lucy and Gene¬ 
vieve were badly bored. 

At half past nine Lucy offered a kind of explana¬ 
tion of my absence. She said that I was no doubt 
playing bridge or billiards in the officers' mess. If I 
was dining with a brigadier general nothing could be 
more natural than that I should be a little late in get¬ 
ting home. After that she and Genevieve went to bed. 

Lucy, by her own account, was fast asleep by half 
past ten. Genevieve was less fortunate. She lay 
awake and read Pope’s “Poems,” the only book ex- 


FOUND MONEY 


235 


cept a Bible which she found in her bedroom. They 
both understood that Canon Sylvestre meant to sit up 
till I came home. 

But Canon Sylvestre had no intention of doing 
anything of the kind. He was accustomed to going 
to bed at half past ten, and saw no sense in sitting up, 
yawning in a chair, because one of his guests stayed 
out late. 

Shortly after half past ten he went to bed, leaving 
the front door open and a lamp alight on the table 
in the hall. It may seem surprising that any house¬ 
holder, especially in Ireland, would go to bed knowing 
that his hall door was open and that any one who liked 
could walk in. The fact is that it was just because 
he lived in Ireland that Canon Sylvestre behaved in 
this way. In other countries a locked door is some 
protection against burglars. In Ireland it is really bet¬ 
ter to leave your door open. If you shut it it is simply 
broken down by any one who wants to steal your prop¬ 
erty or murder you. 

Canon Sylvestre, like Lucy, went to sleep immedi¬ 
ately after he got into bed. 

Some time between eleven and twelve o’clock, 
Genevieve, who was still reading Pope’s poems, heard 
a noise down-stairs. She was neither surprised nor 


FOUND MONEY 


236 

alarmed. She thought that I had returned and was 
going to bed. Canon Sylvestre was wakened by the 
noise, and he too supposed that I had come into the 
house. But, being a very hospitable man, he thought 
he ought to go down to see if I wanted anything be¬ 
fore I went to bed. He slipped on his dressing-gown 
and went down-stairs. 

He found, not me as he expected, but a middle- 
aged woman whom he did not recognize. She was 
opening the doors of the down-stairs rooms and look¬ 
ing into them. Canon Sylvestre, surprised, but not in 
the least alarmed, coughed in order to attract the lady’s 
attention. She looked round. The light of the lamp 
on the hall table shone full on her face. He recognized 
her then as Josephine Wilbred. Perhaps he had aged 
more than she had. Perhaps the dressing-gown dis¬ 
guised him, for one does not expect to see a clergyman 
in a yellow dressing-gown. She failed at first to 
recognize him. 

Directly he spoke she knew him, and they had a 
pleasant little talk about old days before Canon Syl¬ 
vestre went into semi-retirement in Knockcroghery, 
before Josephine gave up good works for patriotism. 
At last she said that she had come to see her niece. 
Canon Sylvestre recognized that an aunt has a per- 


FOUND MONEY 


237 


feet right to see her niece, but said that Genevieve was 
in bed and probably sound asleep. Josephine said that 
her business with her niece was of a very urgent kind. 
Canon Sylvestre led her up to Genevieve’s room and 
knocked at the door. 

Josephine opened the door and walked into her 
niece’s room. Genevieve jumped out of bed the mo¬ 
ment she saw who her visitor was. Josephine, with a 
directness which one does not expect from orators, 
went straight to her business and asked Genevieve 
where her father’s money was buried. Genevieve re¬ 
ferred her to me. Josephine said she had already 
asked me but that I had not given her a satisfactory 
answer. Genevieve’s account of what happened after 
that is best given in her own words. 

“I saw by the smile on the face of the old cat that 
she’d been up to some mischief. She hadn’t got the 
money; but she’d evidently seen you somewhere. 
Knowing the sort she is I thought she might have got 
at you in some way so I asked her what she’d done 
with you. I will say for Aunt Josephine that she 
never wants nerve. She wasn’t the least bit ashamed 
of herself and told me straight out that she’d shut you 
up in a cell. 

“ ‘And what’s more, my dear Genevieve, he’ll stay 


FOUND MONEY 


238 

there till either you or he tells me where that money is. 
So if you’ve any regard for that young man of yours 
you’d better speak out at once.’ 

“That seemed to me pretty fair cheek, even from 
Aunt Josephine, and she’s always been beastly. She 
had no right to come nosing round after my money 
and trying to get it. That made me angry. She had 
no right to kidnap you. That made me angrier still. 
But what made me downright furious was her talking 
about my ‘young man’ as if I was a housemaid who 
had been walking out with the grocer’s boy. And she 
had a sneer on her face when she said it that would 
have turned milk sour. I was so furious that I didn’t 
care what I did, though I expect I’d have done it just 
the same even if I had cared. The only way of dealing 
with Aunt Josephine is to take a strong line and show 
her that you really mean it. Talking is no kind of 
good, for she can always talk back worse than you do. 
I happened to be standing near the washstand when 
she said that about my ‘young man.’ So I hurled the 
soap at her. I missed her with that, so I threw the 
soap-dish next. It missed her too, worse luck.” 

The scene after that must have been very con¬ 
fused for a time. Genevieve went on flinging every¬ 
thing she could think of at her aunt. Some of the 


FOUND MONEY 


239 


things were harmless, like sponges and toothbrushes. 
Others were dangerous missiles, tumblers and water 
carafes. Josephine dodged them as best she could, and 
it does not appear that she was actually struck by 
anything. At last she took refuge behind the dress¬ 
ing-table. Then Genevieve walked out of the room 
and locked the door behind her. Josephine was just as 
much a prisoner as I was, and Genevieve told her so 
through the keyhole. Then she recollected the door 
of communication between her room and Lucy’s. She 
realized that Josephine would escape that way as soon 
as she had time to look round her. Genevieve did not 
waste a minute. She darted into Lucy’s room, locked 
the door of communication, took the key out of its 
hole, and shouted a few taunts to Josephine. 

Then Lucy awoke. The amazing thing is that she 
didn’t wake sooner. The fusillade of crockery next door 
must have made noise enough to wake any one, but she 
slept through it, and only woke to a drowsy semi-con¬ 
sciousness when Genevieve rushed into her room. 

She says that Genevieve distinctly told her that 
there was a homicidal maniac locked up next door. I 
can scarcely suppose that Genevieve used those words. 
But she may very well have said that her aunt, whom 
she had imprisoned, was feeling a bit mad. 


240 


FOUND MONEY 


It is very much to Lucy’s credit, believing what 
she did, that her first thought was for Genevieve. 
The girl had nothing on but a nightdress, and that 
shocked Lucy’s sense of decency, besides exposing 
Genevieve to the risk of catching cold. Lucy always 
takes two or three dressing-gowns with her when she 
leaves home. She got out of bed and gave one of them 
to Genevieve. 

Then they went down-stairs together to look for 
Canon Sylvestre. They felt that they were bound to 
tell him what had happened, but I do not think they 
expected much help from him. As a clergyman he 
was bound to object to the use of violence, and in any 
case he would have been no use in an emergency. 
They found him in his study, waiting for Josephine to 
finish her interview with her niece. Genevieve told 
him what had happened up-stairs. Lucy, still under 
the impression that Josephine was a maniac who had 
escaped from an asylum, begged that the police might 
be sent for at once. Canon Sylvestre told her mildly 
that there are no longer any police in Ireland. She 
then demanded a doctor. Genevieve was more in¬ 
clined to call in the help of an executioner. She 
wanted Josephine hanged, not cured. Canon Sylves¬ 
tre tried reasoning with her. 


FOUND MONEY 


241 


He even went so far as to invoke the authority of 
the Fifth Commandment, quoting the Catechism to 
prove that aunts are included under the term “father 
and mother. ,, He tried persuading, pleading, even a 
mild kind of priestly authority. Genevieve merely 
jingled the keys in the dressing-gown pocket and said 
Aunt Josephine deserved all that she got, and more. 

“In fact/’ said Genevieve, “she's been far too well 
treated. She ought to be in the coal hole, and I'd put 
her there for the night if I thought she wouldn't es¬ 
cape on the way down. I suppose you wouldn’t help 
me to tie her up and drag her down-stairs?” 

She looked at Canon Sylvestre as she spoke. 

“But I dare say you'd rather not,” she said. 
“You’d have to twist her arm till she yelled, and then 
haul her down-stairs, giving an extra twist to her arm 
whenever she appeared to hang back. A clergyman^ 
especially a canon, could hardly do that, could he—I 
mean, without rather going back on the Gospel ?” 

Canon Sylvestre shook his head. Whatever other 
clergy might do—and there have been Inquisitors—he 
was most unwilling to drag a shrieking woman down 
to a coal hole, applying fresh torture as he went. He 
gave up appealing to Genevieve and tried what he 
could do with Lucy. 


24 2 


FOUND MONEY 


But Lucy is very fond of me and is an obstinate 
woman. She had it firmly fixed in her mind that 
Josephine was a maniac. Genevieve had made it plain 
that I was in a cell. She very naturally thought that 
I should be killed if Josephine got at me. Therefore, 
in spite of all that Canon Sylvestre said, she agreed 
with Genevieve that Josephine was better kept under 
lock and key. 

Poor Canon Sylvestre, anxious to make peace in 
his household, went up-stairs and reasoned with Jose¬ 
phine through the keyhole. He had no success there. 
Josephine abused him roundly, and said that she did 
not understand how a man who called himself a clergy¬ 
man could aid and abet Genevieve in breaking the 
whole Ten Commandments. That was her view of 
what her niece had done. I have often wondered how 
she made out that Genevieve broke the Fourth, for 
the night when all this happened came in between a 
Wednesday and a Thursday, nearly as far off as it 
could be from the Sabbath, which ought to be kept 
holy. About the breach of the other nine she appears 
to have argued fluently and ingeniously with Canon 
Sylvestre through the keyhole. Fortunately he en¬ 
joys theological discussions. 

When he finished with Josephine and went down- 


FOUND MONEY 


243 


stairs he found Lucy and Genevieve in the dining¬ 
room. Lucy had relit the fire and was boiling milk. 
She has the greatest belief in hot milk as a remedy for 
all kinds of ills. I dare say she thought it would be 
good for Canon Sylvestre, who would be sure to be ex¬ 
hausted after an argument with Josephine. She gave 
it to Genevieve to prevent her catching cold. There 
was plenty of milk in the house, and Lucy kept on 
boiling it and making the other two drink it. That, 
so far as I have been able to make out, was the way 
they spent the rest of the night. They might have 
done much worse. Hot milk ought to be soothing to 
the nerves, and their position was a trying one. Jose¬ 
phine was not likely to be a placid prisoner, and they 
were all a little anxious about me. 

When daylight began to struggle through the cur¬ 
tains of the room Canon Sylvestre went up-stairs and 
dressed. Then he announced that he was going down 
to the camp to consult Hardy about what ought to be 
done. That, except perhaps Lucy’s milk boiling, was 
the first sensible thing any of them had hit on. Hardy 
is a man of action and accustomed to dealing with pris¬ 
oners of war. 

When Genevieve saw Canon Sylvestre with all his 
clothes on it occurred to her thait she would be the 


244 


FOUND MONEY 


better of a few garments herself. I think she would 
have liked to go down to the camp with Canon Syl- 
vestre, but of course she could not do that with noth¬ 
ing on except a nightdress and Lucy’s dressing-gown, 
Unfortunately all her clothes were in her bedroom, 
and therefore in the possession of Aunt Josephine. 
Canon Sylvestre, who might have found her an embar¬ 
rassing companion, refused to wait for her and went 
off by himself. 

Genevieve’s idea was to negotiate with her aunt. 
Lucy was strongly opposed to this. She said that you 
could not negotiate satisfactorily with a violent 
maniac, and that it would be dangerous to try. She 
offered to lend Genevieve all the clothes necessary for 
warmth and decency. But the offer was not a very 
tempting one, for she is three inches taller than Gene¬ 
vieve and several inches thicker all over. 

Genevieve went up-stairs to negotiate with her 
aunt, by shouts through the locked door. What she 
had to offer was breakfast. What she wished to ob¬ 
tain in exchange was clothing. Josephine’s first idea 
was to go on a hunger strike, and for a time she re¬ 
fused to speak at all. But she probably knew her niece 
well enough to realize that if she threatened to starve 
herself she might be taken at her word and left with- 


FOUND MONEY 


245 


out food. So she thought better of that plan and 
agreed to engage in a kind of discussion which poli¬ 
ticians call “Exploring Avenues,” which ordinary peo¬ 
ple describe as haggling. 

She was an experienced and wary negotiator, and 
about an hour was spent in shouting backward and 
forward through the door. Garment after garment 
was bartered for specified kinds of food. Genevieve 
agreed to give an egg in exchange for her stockings, a 
pot of tea for a blouse, a jug of milk for her skirt, and 
so forth. Cups, saucers and plates were exchanged 
for brushes, combs and a sponge. In the end Jose¬ 
phine secured the promise of a great deal better break¬ 
fast than I got. She also thought that she had got 
the better of Genevieve. Genevieve forgot all about 
her boots, and when she recollected them found that her 
aunt had secured everything that she could possibly 
want and that there was nothing left to barter with. 
Josephine, grasping at her advantage, refused to give 
up the boots. 

But Genevieve was by no means beaten. She had 
promised a pot of tea. She had never said that the 
tea would be made with boiling water. 

“Very well. Aunt Josephine,” she said; “keep the 
boots if you like, but if you do your tea will be luke- 


246 


FOUND MONEY 


warm and your eggs raw, and I shouldn’t wonder if 
the milk was sour.” 

Josephine, who has a great deal of common sense 
in spite of her patriotism, realized at once that she was 
beaten. English statesmen who make bargains with 
the Irish ought to hire Genevieve as their adviser. 
She knows how to deal with people like Josephine, 
and could teach our cabinet ministers the wisdom of 
always keeping a card up their sleeve. 


CHAPTER XIX 


ANON SYLVESTRE did not understand the 



V*/ position of affairs at the camp. I doubt if he 
fully realized that there were two hostile armies 
there. He certainly knew nothing about Josephine's 
conference with Hardy the night before, or that 
Hardy had surrendered the whole camp except the 
men's dining-room. 

When he walked through the gate beside the 
guard-house he found himself in the middle of an ex¬ 
cited group of Republican officers. They had discov¬ 
ered that Josephine was missing. The motor-car in 
which she had arrived the day before was still there, 
and she had said nothing about wanting to go away. 
The unpleasant inference was obvious. She had been 
kidnapped. It also seemed plain that it was Hardy 
who had kidnapped her. There was no one else to 
do it. 

Fortunately Canon Sylvestre had sense enough to 
say nothing about her. It did not occur to any one 
for a moment that he could have anything to do with 


247 


248 


FOUND MONEY 


her disappearance. No civilian in Ireland would dare 
to lay hands on a lady like the Eloquent Josephine. 

Canon Sylvestre, smiling benignantly, said that he 
wanted to speak to Brigadier-General Hardy. 

The Republican officers held a long consultation. 
In the end they hit on the plan of using Canon Syl¬ 
vestre as a kind of envoy. They wrote out an ultima¬ 
tum and gave it to him to deliver to Hardy. It was a 
terrific document and very long, though not quite so 
long as one of Josephine’s speeches. The important 
part of it was a threat to open fire on Hardy’s quarters 
unless Josephine were restored to them unharmed, in 
an hour. They allowed Canon Sylvestre to read the 
document, and charged him with the duty of making it 
plain to Hardy that they meant what they said. 

He was led off to the open space of ground in 
front of the dining-room. The Republican sentinels, 
armed with double-barreled shot-guns, and smoking 
cigarettes, were on one side of this debatable land. 
Hardy’s sentries, two of them, armed with rifles, and 
smoking cigarettes, were posted outside the dining¬ 
room door. Their orders were evk* ‘y very strict. 

v-' 

They would not allow Canon Sylvestre to cross the 
neutral ground until they had consulted Hardy. 

After a quarter of an hour’s wait, Canon Sylvestre 


FOUND MONEY 


249 


was allowed to advance, alone, holding his hands above 
his head. He was admitted into the dining-room, and 
was very much astonished by what he saw there. The 
whole of Hardy’s army, except the two sentries, was 
digging hard. There were not enough spades for 
forty-eight men, so some of them were working with 
coal shovels, others with wooden tools made out of the 
tops of packing-cases. Hardy himself was directing 
operations. When Canon Sylvestre entered, about a 
quarter of the total surface had been dug over. 

Hardy came forward and greeted him warmly. 

“I’m sorry my men kept you waiting so long,” he 
said. “As soon as I knew it was you I gave orders 
that you were to be admitted at once. The fact is, 
that I particularly want to see you. I want to ask you 
a question. This is the place you took those Ogam 
stones from, isn’t it?” 

Canon Sylvestre stared at him in astonishment. 
The very last thing he expected to be consulted about 
was Ogam stones, and he thought that Hardy was in 
a critical and highly dangerous position. 

“I have a *r here for you,” he said, “rather an 
important letter. 

He took the ultimatum from his pocket. Hardy 
waved it aside. 


250 


FOUND MONEY 


“That’s all right,” he said; “it can wait. But do 
tell me, was it here you found the Ogam stones ?” 

“It was,” said Canon Sylvestre. “At least some of 
them were here. Others were outside in the cook¬ 
house. But I’m afraid you won’t find any more. I 
took all there was. Besides, it’s no use digging for 
them. They aren’t buried.” 

“I’m not looking for more stones,” said Hardy. 
“I’m—I’m—I’m—” I do not wonder that he found it 
a little difficult to say what he was doing. But he hit 
on a sort of explanation in the end. “I’m getting the 
ground ready for putting them back. That’s what you 
want to do, isn’t it ?” 

Nobody in the world except Canon Sylvestre would 
have believed that. But he seemed to be perfectly 
satisfied, and thanked Hardy warmly for taking so 
much trouble. Then he pushed the Republican ulti¬ 
matum into Hardy’s hands. 

“I wish you’d read this,” he said. “It’s really very 
important.” 

Hardy, more or less satisfied about the Ogam 
stones, read the ultimatum through. Then he whistled. 

“Do you know what this is all about ?” he asked. 

“Yes. I read it.” 

“Well,” said Hardy, “do you mind going back and 


FOUND MONEY 


251 


telling them that I haven’t got the Eloquent Jose¬ 
phine, and what’s more I wouldn’t keep her for an 
hour if I had. They may like having their heads 
talked off by wild women, but I don’t. Just say to 
them that I’d much sooner have a man-eating tiger 
loose about my camp than Josephine Wilbred.” 

Here Canon Sylvestre displayed an amount of wis¬ 
dom and caution that I should have never given him 
credit for possessing. 

“I think it would be better not to tell them that,” 
he said. “You see—” 

Hardy interrupted him. 

“They’re threatening to fire on me,” he said. “I 
don’t suppose they’ll do it, for if they did I might fire 
back. But there’s no use running unnecessary risks. 
If they’ve lost Josephine during the night it’s their own 
fault, and they’d better go and look for her.” 

“But,” said Canon Sylvestre, “if they look for her 
they’re sure to search my house.” 

“Well, let them. They won’t do any harm, at 
least not much.” 

“But,” said Canon Sylvestre, “she’s there, locked 
up in a bedroom.” 

Hardy was too much astonished to do more than 
stutter for a minute. At last he managed to speak. 


252 


FOUND MONEY 


“Do you mean to tell me,” he said, “that you've 
kidnapped the Eloquent Josephine? I'd never have 
thought it of you, Canon Sylvestre, never. You’re the 
very last man in Ireland I’d have suspected of doing 
such a thing.” 

“But I didn’t do it.” 

“But you’ve got her locked up in your house.” 

“Yes. But I didn’t lock her up. I’d have let her 
go if I could. It was her niece who did it.” 

Hardy gave a long whistle. 

“Well,” he said at last, “we’d certainly better keep 
that dark. I’d far rather they went on thinking that 
I’ve got her here than let them find that out. If those 
Republican fellows find out that you’ve imprisoned 
Josephine they’ll burn your house and probably shoot 
you. They may think twice about firing on me and 
my men. In fact, I don’t believe they dare, in spite 
of their ultimatum. But you may take my word for it, 
Canon Sylvestre, they won’t hesitate about attacking 
you. Let me see, you’ve no gun, have you ? One old 
man and three women in the house. That’s just the 
sort of job these armies of ours are quite good at and 
really enjoy. But tell me this, what made you do it?” 

“I didn’t do it,” said Canon Sylvestre. “I keep on 
telling you I didn’t. It was her niece.” 


FOUND MONEY 


253 


“She’s a high-spirited little filly, that one,” said 
Hardy, “and I quite understand her disliking her aunt. 
Still, imprisoning her is a bit strong, isn’t it? Why 
on earth did she do it?” 

“Because Miss Wilbred, Josephine Wilbred, had 
kidnapped Mr. Farnham and imprisoned him.” 

Again Hardy whistled. Then he suddenly turned 
to his men and exhorted them to dig harder. He even 
threatened to shoot any one who showed signs of 
laziness. After that he walked up and down the din¬ 
ing-room thinking deeply. At last he came back to 
Canon Sylvestre. 

“Do you think,” he said, “that Miss Genevieve can 
be counted on to keep her aunt locked up ?” 

“I think so. She seems very determined.” 

Hardy thought again for a minute or two. 

“On the whole,” he said at last, “things might be 
a great deal worse. As long as those corner boys out¬ 
side think that Fve got their precious Josephine they 
won’t go searching anywhere else for her.” 

“But won’t they fire on you?” said Canon Syl¬ 
vestre. “They told me to make it clear to you that 
they really meant to do that.” 

“No, they won’t,” said Hardy. “Apart from their 
natural dislike of being shot themselves, they know 


254 


FOUND MONEY 


perfectly well that bullets would go through and 
through this wretched building and be very likely to 
hit Josephine, if she were here, as they think she is.” 

Then at last—and it was high time he did—Canon 
Sylvestre remembered his original business with 
Hardy. 

“But what about Farnham?” he said. “He ought 
to be rescued.” 

“It won’t do Farnham any harm to stay where he 
is for a day or two,” said Hardy. “Three days, if 
necessary, and if you can keep it dark about the Elo¬ 
quent Josephine, for that length of time. In three 
days,” he looked round again at his workers, “I ought 
to have the whole place dug up thoroughly.” 

Canon Sylvestre was astonished at this zeal for 
digging. 

“Surely,” he said, “there’s no real hurry about 
putting back the Ogam stones.” 

Hardy had forgotten all about the Ogam stones. 
He gaped at Canon Sylvestre in blank amazement. 
Then he suddenly remembered the reason he had given 
for his digging. 

“Damn the Ogam stones,” he said. 

I do not know what Canon Sylvestre thought of 
that. Probably he did not think about it at all. His 


FOUND MONEY 


255 


mind was fully occupied with what happened next. 
Hardy called one of his men and handed Canon Syl- 
vestre over to him as a prisoner. The poor old gentle¬ 
man was led away into the cook-house, and left there 
under the.charge of a man with two revolvers. 

At about nine o’clock Hardy came in and dismissed 
the sentry. 

“I’m extremely sorry, Padre, to have to keep you 
here, and I’ll make you as comfortable as I can. 
They’re getting breakfast ready now, and I hope you’ll 
share what there is with me.” 

“But,” said Canon Sylvestre, “why are you keep¬ 
ing me?” 

“The fact is I’m afraid to let you go. You see, 
Padre, as long as you’re here nothing very much will 
happen outside. Those Republican boys will wait for 
you to go back with an answer to their ultimatum, and 
they’ll go on thinking that I’ve got the Eloquent Jose¬ 
phine. But if I let you loose and you go back through 
their lines they’ll find out that she isn’t here. No mat¬ 
ter what you said to them they’d find out. You’re not 
the kind of man who could get the better of a baby in 
arms, and the more you tried to keep a secret the less 
you’d be able to do it. The fact is, Padre, that you’re 
not the least bit of good at lying. I hope you don’t 


FOUND MONEY 


256 

mind my saying so plainly. I don’t blame you for it in 
the least. It’s not your fault. I dare say it’s being a 
clergyman and constantly reading the Bible that does 
it to you. Anyhow, there it is; I don’t think I ever 
met a man less able to deceive people than you are.” 

“I suppose that is so,” said Canon Sylvestre, sigh¬ 
ing. 

“You may take my word for it, that it is,” said 
Hardy. “Anybody could see through you just as if you 
were glass, and you realize how things are, don’t you? 
The moment they find out that Josephine isn’t here 
they’ll start looking for her, and it won’t be long be¬ 
fore they find her. Then— Well, the Eloquent Jose¬ 
phine isn’t such a fool as she seems. Her speeches 
would make anybody think she was a bom idiot. But 
she’s not. And I fancy she has her suspicions. She 
dropped a hint or two while she was talking to me last 
night which made me sure she has her suspicions.” 

“About what?” 

“About those Ogam stones of yours, of course,” 
said Hardy. 

“Is she interested in Ogam stones?” said Canon 
Sylvestre simply. “I had no idea of that.” 

“She’s very much interested in those particular 
stones,” said Hardy; “so much interested that it would 


FOUND MONEY 


257 


suit me best to get my digging done while she’s still 
under lock and key.” 

“But if I can’t go back to my rectory they’ll begin 
to wonder what’s happened to me.” 

“As long as they content themselves with won¬ 
dering,” said Hardy, “there’ll be no harm done. And I 
don’t see what else they can do. If I only felt quite 
sure that Miss Genevieve wouldn’t let her aunt out—” 

“She won’t do that.” 

In the end Canon Sylvestre gave his word not to 
attempt to escape, and Hardy left him free to wander 
about just as he liked in the dining-room, the cook¬ 
house and the paddock behind. He took a great inter¬ 
est in watching the men dig, and admired the way in 
which Hardy arranged their work. 

Looking back on the whole business now, I think 
that Hardy took the best course open to him. He must 
have known all along that Josephine Wilbred would 
sooner or later suspect the existence of the buried 
money. She was sure to know a great deal about her 
brother’s affairs, and when she found Genevieve and 
me at Knockcroghery she would be likely to draw the 
conclusions which she actually did draw. She was not 
very cautious in her speech—no real orator is—and 
she said things during her conference with Hardy 


258 


FOUND MONEY 


which showed him that she meant to do a little digging 
on her own account. Hardy, with all the information 
I had given him fresh in his mind, would be quick at 
understanding any unguarded word she spoke. 

With the Eloquent Josephine and her army watch¬ 
ing him Hardy would have had great difficulty in 
digging anywhere outside of the walls of his dining¬ 
room, and he was quite aware that he might have to 
dig up some open ground. But he calculated, correct¬ 
ly I think, that Josephine was not likely to have con¬ 
fided the buried-treasure story to any of her officers 
or men. So long as she was out of the way he could 
dig inside his part of the camp without interruption. 

Genevieve’s coup in capturing her aunt was a 
stroke of luck for him. Josephine would be kept out 
of the way for a day or two, and at any moment his 
diggers might have come on what he sought. What 
he would have done if he had found the money I do 
not know. He might have made off with the whole 
of it and left me to settle things up with Genevieve 
afterward as best I could. That is what George Stub- 
bington thought he would have done. But I have a 
better opinion of Hardy. He might have taken more 
than his ten per cent., but he would have handed over 
a reasonable sum to Genevieve. 


FOUND MONEY 


259 


But that is mere speculation. There was a flaw in 
Hardy’s plan, a factor in the problem about which he 
knew nothing. I was safely locked up. So was Jose¬ 
phine. The Republican Army was immobilized. 
Canon Sylvestre was not in a position to talk to any 
one. Genevieve was guarding her aunt. Lucy, in a 
business like this, was negligible. But Hardy forgot 
my excellent brother-in-law George Stubbington. And 
George had left London by the night mail. He was 
rushing through Rugby while the Eloquent Josephine 
was bullying me. He was embarking at Holyhead 
while Genevieve was throwing soap-dishes at her aunt. 
He was breakfasting in the Irish train while Canon 
Sylvestre was conveying the Republican ultimatum to 
Hardy. He reached Knockcroghery, by motor from 
Athlone, at eleven a. m. 


CHAPTER XX 


HE moment George Stubbington arrived at the 



A rectory Lucy rushed at him with a bald statement 
of the two outstanding events. “George, darling,” she 
said, “what are we to do? Genevieve has locked up 
her aunt, and Genevieve’s aunt has imprisoned poor 
Johnny.” 

George, very naturally, refused to believe her. In 
his opinion such things could not possibly happen. 
This is the twentieth century, and we are living in 
Western Europe, under—more or less under—the 
British flag. Policemen, after due process law, occa¬ 
sionally imprison malefactors. Otherwise people are 
not imprisoned. That was what he said to Lucy. 

But he was soon shaken out of his unbelief. Jose¬ 
phine, strengthened by the breakfast she had received, 
in exchange for Genevieve’s clothes, was kicking at the 
door of her room and shouting. George went up-stairs 
and listened to her. Afterward he could scarcely deny 
that she was inside and wanted to get out. It was 
plain to him very soon that I was nowhere to be found, 


260 


FOUND MONEY 


261 

and as there was no reason why I should disappear of 
my own accord he was forced to believe that Lucy had 
told him the truth about me. 

That, I think, was as far as George got at first. He 
did not know that Genevieve’s money had anything to 
do with the situation. He never understood, and to 
this day does not understand, how Irish politics acted 
and reacted on our affairs. But having grasped two 
simple facts, Josephine’s imprisonment and mine, he 
set to work at once to have us both released. He took 
Josephine’s case first, because he knew exactly where 
she was and who had shut her up. He told Genevieve 
to let her go. Genevieve refused flatly. 

“My dear Genevieve,” Lucy pleaded, “please do 
what George says. He always knows what is right.” 

That was her opinion; but Genevieve was not 
George’s wife, and had a will of her own. George 
argued with her. He talked about penalties imposed 
by law on those who imprison their friends. He talked 
about public opinion and Genevieve’s reputation. He 
fell back on vague threats, mentioned the Magna 
Charta, the writ of habeas corpus and the British 
constitution. He might just as well have lectured on 
the Feudal system or the Napoleonic code, for any 
effect he produced on Genevieve. 


262 


FOUND MONEY 


I do not think that George would ever have got 
any further, but for an accident. Lucy slipped up to 
her bedroom while he was talking, and found the keys 
of Josephine’s prison in the pocket of the dressing- 
gown she had lent to Genevieve. The poor girl had 
been careless enough to leave them there when she got 
her own clothes. Lucy came down and handed them 
to George just as he was threatening Genevieve with 
the vengeance of the whole British Empire. There, I 
think, Lucy did a dishonorable thing. She might just 
as well have taken Genevieve’s brooch or her bangle 
or anything else she left about. George was equally 
dishonorable. He took the keys, went straight up¬ 
stairs, and opened the door of Josephine’s room. 

I would give a great deal to have been present, an 
unseen spectator, at the interview between George 
Stubbington and the Eloquent Josephine. I would 
give something to have a fairly full report of what 
they said to each other. Unfortunately George is ob¬ 
stinate in his refusal to talk about that half-hour, and 
I have never had the chance of a chat with Josephine. 

All Genevieve can tell me is that after half an hour 
her Aunt Josephine walked down-stairs and out of the 
house. She was holding her head high and was in an 
extremely bad temper. 


FOUND MONEY 


263 


“I’ve seen her pretty well riled now and then,” said 
Genevieve, “but never anything like that. My idea 
is that if her stays hadn’t been strong she’d have burst.” 

She took no notice at all of Lucy, but scowled fero¬ 
ciously at Genevieve as she passed. 

After her came George. He does not fly into 
rages, but Lucy says there was perspiration on his 
forehead and that his lips were blue, which goes to 
show that he had been through a severe time. Gene¬ 
vieve reports simply that he looked grim. He gave his 
orders at once. 

“Lucy,” he said, “please pack up whatever luggage 
you’ve got and be ready to start for home at once.” 

Lucy neither protested nor argued, but she is a sis¬ 
ter as well as a wife, and she remembered my exist¬ 
ence. Instead of going off to pack, she stood looking 
at George with tears in her eyes. It was Genevieve 
who ventured to defy him on my behalf. 

“We won’t go,” she said, “until Mr. Famham is 
safe back with us.” 

George ignored her, but he could scarcely ignore 
her protest. 

“You can pack your brother’s things too,” he said 
to Lucy. “He’ll be coming home with us. I expect 
him up here in about an hour.” 


264 


FOUND MONEY 


George could not have been quite certain that I 
would leave Knockcroghery with him, but he spoke 
with the utmost confidence, and in the end it turned 
out that he was right. Lucy, of course, was satisfied 
with his assurance. 

“Come along, Genevieve,” she said; “let’s get our 
things packed.” 

“This young lady,” said George sternly, “will stay 
with her aunt.” 

“No, I won’t,” said Genevieve. 

“Her aunt,” said George, still addressing Lucy, “is 
her legal guardian, and is perfectly ready to receive her.” 

“I’ve said all along that I’m not going to live with 
Aunt Josephine,” said Genevieve, “and I won’t.” 

Then at last George turned and spoke to her 
directly. 

“At all events,” he said, “it must be clearly under¬ 
stood that neither my wife, nor I nor any other mem¬ 
ber of our family, will be further mixed up with your 
affairs.” 

It was a brutal thing to say to a girl, and quite un¬ 
like anything I ever heard George say before or since. 
Even Lucy was shocked and horrified. 

“Oh, George!” she said. 

“If you think I want to live with you,” said Gene- 


FOUND MONEY 265 

vieve, “you’re mistaken. I wouldn’t enter your house 
for all the money in the world.” 

“Oh, Genevieve!” said Lucy. 

She was in a very difficult position. She was 
really fond of Genevieve, but she had the most perfect 
confidence in her husband. Genevieve’s defiance of 
him seemed to be a kind of blasphemy. Genevieve 
herself was unrepentant and unterrified. 

“Mr. Farnham,” she said, “will see that I don’t 
have to go back to Aunt Josephine, or to your odious 
house in London.” 

“Mr. Farnham,” said George, “will agree with me 
when he hears what I have to tell him.” 

He was wrong there. I did not agree with him 
even after I’d heard all he had to say to me. But I 
understood his position. For a man like George, an 
entirely honorable British merchant, any association 
with Genevieve’s affairs was quite impossible. But 
George, though a man of rigid principles, is at bottom 
a gentleman. He hated bullying Genevieve. It was 
his duty to make it quite clear to her that he could 
have nothing to do with her or her money, and that all 
intercourse between her and his family must cease at 
once. Because it was his duty he did it; but he did not 
at all like doing it, and was most unwilling to go on 


266 FOUND MONEY 

doing it any longer than was necessary. He left the 
room. 

Lucy went up to pack. Genevieve went with her 
and also packed, in spite of what George had said 
about her living with her Aunt Josephine. After all, 
as she explained to Lucy, he could not prevent her 
traveling back to Dublin, or even to London, if she 
chose. George, having delivered his orders, went out- 
of-doors. For a while he walked up and down, keep¬ 
ing his eye on the road which led from the camp. He 
expected to see me coming along it at any moment. 
An hour passed and there was no sign of me. George 
would not admit to himself that he was uneasy. Jose¬ 
phine had promised to release me directly she got 
back to the camp. It was inconceivable to him that 
she would break her word. But he was certainly un¬ 
comfortable. He went into the garden and sat down 
on one of the Ogam stones and smoked his pipe. 

After a while Lucy came out and told him that 
she had finished packing. George went into the 
house and looked at the baggage. Lucy’s two suit¬ 
cases and traveling cushion were there. So was my 
kit-bag. So also was Genevieve’s case, unmistakably 
hers, with a large G. W. on the lid in white letters. 
George frowned at it, but said nothing. 


FOUND MONEY 267 

“If we’re not going to start immediately,” said 
Lucy, “I’d better see about getting some lunch.” 

It was quite time she did so, for it was half past 
one. 

“We’ll start,” said George, “directly your brother 
arrives. I expected him long ago.” 

“If you’re counting on Aunt Josephine letting him 
go,” said Genevieve, “you may go on expecting him, 
but you won’t see him.” 

“Miss Wilbred has passed her word to me,” said 
George, “and I’ve no doubt she’ll keep it.” 

“She won’t,” said Genevieve. “That’s the last 
thing she’ll do.” 

I think she wronged her aunt there. Josephine 
would have kept her promise if she’d remembered it 
Unfortunately she forgot all about me. She was so 
much excited by what she saw when she got back to 
the camp that she would have forgotten anything, even 
the Irish Republic. Hardy, feeling pretty sure that he 
would not be interfered with, shifted the ground of 
his excavations. He began digging in the open space 
in front of the men’s dining-room. He knew perfectly 
well that Josephine would guess what he was at di¬ 
rectly she returned, but he calculated on Genevieve’s 
keeping her safe. 


268 


FOUND MONEY 


But Josephine, owing to George's interference, 
was back in the camp before noon. Her first impulse 
was to order her men to fire on Hardy’s digging party. 
But that would have involved her in a regular battle, 
and though she did not suppose that Hardy or his men 
would fight for the Irish Free State, she was not at all 
sure that they would not fight for twenty thousand 
pounds. Her own men, who knew nothing about the 
money, would then run away. Josephine was an able 
woman, and realized that her position was not so 
strong as it looked. She suppressed her temper, walked 
across the debatable land, and asked Hardy to hold 
another conference. 

Hardy agreed at once. He was just as unwilling 
as she was to have a battle. He had not said a word 
to his men about the money, and he knew that they 
would be most unwilling to shed the blood of their 
Irish brothers if those brothers showed the slightest 
intention of shedding theirs. 

He and Josephine retired into the cook-house to 
confer, and she, very naturally, forgot all about me 
and her promise to George. Even Genevieve, who 
hated her, could scarcely have blamed her. 

George pretended not to take any notice of what 
Genevieve said about her aunt, but he became more 


FOUND MONEY 


269 


and more uneasy. Lucy went into the kitchen and per¬ 
suaded Mrs. Hegarty to provide some lunch. George, 
still pretending to be confident about my release, sat 
down and took an egg. 

“Aunt Josephine,” said Genevieve, “has probably 
killed Mr. Farnham by this time. ,, 

She did not believe this, but she wanted to annoy 
George because he had been rude to her in the morn¬ 
ing. George laid down his egg-spoon and blew his 
nose so violently that Genevieve knew that she was 
succeeding in her object. 

“I should think/’ she said, “that Aunt Josephine 
has probably killed twenty or thirty people in the last 
few months. She calls it executing them, and she 
loves doing it.” 

This was a gross slander. Josephine slays reputa¬ 
tions with her tongue. I doubt very much whether 
she has ever actually fired off a revolver or driven a 
knife into human flesh. 

“It’s rather a pity,” said Genevieve, “that we let 
her go. As long as we had her safe no one would have 
done anything to Mr. Farnham for fear of what we 
might do to her.” 

She looked at George with a nice innocent smile. 
Indeed, her smile was so innocent that Lucy did not 


270 


FOUND MONEY 


believe it was really malicious. She told me afterward 
that Genevieve’s childish ways rather teased George. 

“But of course,” Genevieve went on, “you were 
quite right to let her go, on account of the habeas 
corpus and the Magna Charta and all the other things 
you told me about.” 

That was too much for George. He put down his 
knife with a clatter and stood up. 

“I shall go down to the camp,” he said, “and see 
why John is delaying. He ought to have come up 
here at once. It’s most inconsiderate of him to keep us 
waiting in this way.” 

He stamped over to the door. Lucy ran after him. 

“George dear,” she said, “do be careful. Don’t 
run into danger.” 

“There’s not the slightest danger,” said George, 
“but if we’re kept waiting much longer we shall miss 
our train.” 

Lucy followed him through the door and out to 
the lawn. 

“But terrible things do happen in Ireland,” she 
said. “You heard what Genevieve said.” 

George stalked on, while Lucy clung to his arm. 

“I must request you, Lucy,” he said, “to have noth¬ 
ing more to do with that young woman.” 


FOUND MONEY 


271 


“But, George darling,” said Lucy, “that aunt of 
hers is frightful, really a fierce savage woman. If 
you’d heard her when she first found out that she was 
locked up—” 

George shook off her hand and strode on. If I’d 
really been dawdling about the camp after having been 
released at midday by Josephine I should have heard 
some strong language from George. Fortunately for 
me, I was still under lock and key in the guard-room. 


CHAPTER XXI 


HE baby soldier who acted as my jailer was 



A obviously excited about something when he 
brought me in my breakfast shortly after ten o’clock. 
I tried to find out from him what had happened in the 
night, but the only thing he would say was that I 
might expect to be tried by court martial some time 
during the morning. 

I thought that very unlikely. Josephine’s business 
with me—I could hardly call it her charge against me 
—was not the sort of thing which could very well be 
produced in a public court. Even an Irish Republic 
would hesitate to try a man for the crime of refusing 
to hand over the money of an orphan girl to an aunt 
who wanted to grab it. But though I did not expect 
a formal trial, I thought it quite likely that I should 
have another visit from Josephine. 

I did all I could to make myself presentable; but 
as I had no water to wash in and no razor to shave 
with I could not do much except scrape the dry mud 
off my clothes with a teaspoon. Fortunately I’d been 


272 


FOUND MONEY 


273 


given a teaspoon with my breakfast. There was a 
great deal of mud, and I spent an hour working at it. 
In the end my appearance was not much improved. 

After that I had nothing to do except wait for 
Josephine. I still had plenty of tobacco, so I waited 
patiently enough. But I became aware that my jailer 
was not the only person in the camp who was excited. 
Men were constantly walking past the building in 
which I was shut up. And they walked hurriedly. 
Sometimes they ran. The whole atmosphere of the 
camp was charged with excitement. I could neither 
see nor hear anything definite, but there was no mis¬ 
take about the feeling which was prevalent. 

I became exceedingly curious, and made several 
attempts to communicate with people outside. I found 
that knocking on my door was no use. Nor was shout¬ 
ing. I tried writing notes on scraps of paper and 
throwing them out of the small window, which was so 
high up that I could not reach it to look out. I had to 
break the glass first; but I did that easily by throwing 
my cup through one pane and my saucer through 
another. 

Neither the shower of broken crockery nor the 
notes which followed it attracted the attention of any 
one outside; but the feeling of nervous tension in- 


274 


FOUND MONEY 


creased. At last, about twelve o’clock, there was a 
great rush of men past my prison toward the gate of 
the camp. Then there was a burst of cheering. The 
cheering went on, and the men who cheered came 
nearer to me. There was a sudden silence, which was 
broken a moment later by the sound of a woman’s 
voice. I recognized it as Josephine’s, and knew that 
she was making a speech. I settled down on my mat¬ 
tress and lit my pipe again. She would not come to 
see me till she had finished her speech, and that was 
not likely to be for three or four hours. 

I was wrong in my calculation. Josephine made 
the shortest speech of her whole life that morning. It 
barely lasted a quarter of an hour. When she had 
finished the men cheered again, and I fully expected 
that she would come to visit me. She did not. Nor 
did any one else. I sat there wondering what had hap¬ 
pened until a little after two o’clock. Then the door 
of my cell was opened, and to my immense surprise 
George Stubbington walked in. 

“Come along at once,” he said. “We are going 
back to London, and we’ve no time to lose if we’re to 
catch our train.” 

I got up and followed him out of the cell. I was 
perfectly willing to “come along” that far, though I 


FOUND MONEY 


275 


was not sure about going straight back to London. 
What I saw when I got outside filled me with aston¬ 
ishment and dismay. All the men of both armies were 
digging with desperate energy. Three of them, Jose¬ 
phine’s men, I think, had secured a plow and two 
horses, and were turning up long furrows. Josephine 
and Hardy, apparently reconciled, were going to and 
fro among the men, urging them to work hard. Canon 
Sylvestre—and I think this astonished me most of all 
—was sitting on a packing-case outside the dining¬ 
room watching the digging with a gentle smile. 

“George,” I said, “I must put a stop to this at 
once, and I rely on you as a business man, and one 
who understands the sacredness of trust funds, to back 
me up.” 

“I shall do no such thing,” said George. “Nor 
will you.” 

“I don’t think you quite understand what’s happen¬ 
ing.” 

“Yes, I do,” said George, “and that’s exactly why 
I’m going to take you away.” 

“These people,” I said, “are trying to obtain pos¬ 
session of Genevieve’s little fortune, and as I happen to 
be in a certain sense a trustee for the money, I intend 
to stop them if I can. At all events, I shall make a 


276 


FOUND MONEY 


strong protest against the robbery of an orphan girl. 
An orphan girl, George, think of that.” 

George is such a thoroughly good fellow and such 
a strong believer in the sacredness of property that I 
felt sure he would be moved by my appeal. But he 
was not in the least. 

“Listen to me,” he said. “That money no more 
belongs to Miss Wilbred than it does to me.” 

“It was left to her by her father.” 

“It wasn’t his to leave,” said George. “Do you 
know who her father was ?” 

I did not. I had never known much about Wil¬ 
bred. George enlightened me. 

“He was a fraudulent bank manager,” said George, 
“and a particularly clever one. He managed to take 
about twenty thousand pounds before he was caught. 
It was all in gold. He had far too much sense to touch 
notes or securities.” 

I gasped. What George told me was a surprise, 
but I saw at once that it was very likely to be true. 

“He was caught in the end,” George went on. 
“They always are. They gave him ten years’ penal 
servitude.” 

“And I thought he’d been abroad, exploring or 
something,” I said feebly. 


FOUND MONEY 


277 


“You always were a fool,” said George. 

“And the money?” 

“Exactly. The bank never got a penny of it, and 
nobody ever found out what he did with it. I recol¬ 
lect the trial perfectly well now, though I couldn’t fix 
up who Wilbred was when you first mentioned his 
name. There was no trace of the money. He hadn’t 
been speculating, or gambling, or spending a shilling 
over his salary. Well, now we know what he did with 
it.” 

“Buried it.” 

“His robberies had been going on for years,” said 
George. “I suppose he brought the stuff out here a 
little at a time. I expect he knew he’d be caught in the 
end, and calculated on having the money when he got 
out of jail.” 

“That,” I said, “accounts for his tattooing his 
legs.” 

George looked at me doubtfully. He probably 
thought I had gone mad suddenly. Wilbred’s legs, 
tattooed or not, seemed to have nothing to do with 
the story. I shrank from an explanation which was 
bound to be rather long. 

“You’re wonderful, George,” I said. “How did 
you find it all out?” 


278 


FOUND MONEY 


“I’ve been talking to Miss Wilbred, the aunt of 
your friend, and she gave me the outlines of the 
story. ,, 

“Oh,” I said, “Josephine. But I wouldn’t believe 
every word she says. She’s noted for her eloquence 
you know, and these orators—well, they are orators.” 

That was a feeble thing to say, for I knew per¬ 
fectly well that Josephine had told the truth about her 
brother, even if she had never told the truth about 
anything else in her life. The story explained all I 
knew about Wilbred, and accounted for the queer way 
he had disposed of his money. 

“As it happens,” said George, “I thoroughly be¬ 
lieve Miss Wilbred, but if you want more proof go 
over there and ask that man who’s talking to her.” 

He pointed to Hardy, who seemed to be on the 
best of terms with Josephine at the moment. 

“I had a few words with him,” said George, “when 
I went to Miss Wilbred about getting you released. 
He told me exactly the same story that she did, and he 
was a junior clerk at the time in the bank that Wilbred 
managed.” 

I began to recollect a great many things. Hardy 
had been very anxious to know whether Genevieve’s 
father lived in Athlone, and he had known, without my 


FOUND MONEY 


279 

telling him, that Wilbred’s Christian name was 
Quartus. 

“Poor Genevieve,” I said. 

“That young woman,” said George, “is the daugh¬ 
ter of a convict.” 

“That's not her fault.” 

“It's her misfortune,” said George, “and I've told 
Lucy that we can have nothing further to do with her. 
We shall leave her here in charge of her aunt.” 

George started back toward the rectory at a rapid 
walk. I followed him without saying another word, 
but I felt sure that he was wrong in supposing that he 
could leave Genevieve in charge of her aunt. I knew 
something about her feelings toward that lady. 


I 


CHAPTER XXII 


EORGE slackened his pace a little when we were 



VJ. well out of the camp, and I was able to keep up 
with him without trotting. 

“George,” I said, “you’re perfectly right in refusing 
to have anything more to do with that money. From 
your point of view and mine—I know you think I’ve 
no morality, but still it is my point of view—Gene¬ 
vieve shouldn’t touch a penny of it. Still, you must 
recognize that ours is not the only way of looking at 
Wilbred’s enterprise.” 

“Fraud is fraud,” said George firmly, “and Wil- 
bred was a thief.” 

“From our point of view, yes,” I said. “But we’re 
English, both of us, and we’re perhaps a little insular 
in our outlook. An Irishman would naturally regard 
Wilbred as a pioneer, a man who was a little in ad¬ 
vance of his time. If he’d wait till to-day before appro¬ 
priating that money, he’d—” 

“He’d have been a thief, to-day or any other day.” 

“No,” I said. “He’d have been a patriot. You 


280 


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281 


know—you must know that in this country the despoil¬ 
ing of banks is a virtuous action.” 

“I suppose,” said George, “that’s your literary way 
of looking at things.” 

He and Lucy have the same contempt for litera¬ 
ture, and I could see that my line of argument was be¬ 
ginning to irritate him. I hastened to soothe him. 

“I’m not defending Wilbred,” I said; “I’m merely 
trying to persuade you not to be too hard on Gene¬ 
vieve. Call her father a thief and a convict if you 
like, but Genevieve’s case is different. You ought to 
regard her as the daughter of a patriot who happened 
at one time to be a political prisoner. That’s the way 
to think of her, and if you’ll only argue the thing out 
for yourself along these lines you’ll come to see that 
Genevieve’s family connections are really a credit to 
her.” 

George snorted. 

Lucy, when we got back to the rectory, took quite 
a different line with him. She appealed to his sense 
of chivalry, and to the pity which any good-hearted 
man must feel for a lonely orphan girl. She must have 
made her points well, for George, though he did not 
modify his view that Genevieve was the daughter of a 
criminal, gave a sort of tacit consent to her traveling 
back to London with our party. 


282 


FOUND MONEY 


We only just got to the station in time for our 
train, but Lucy managed to whisper a word of advice 
to me. 

“Leave George to me,” she said. “I’ll manage him. 
You and Genevieve go in a different carriage.” 

Lucy is the meekest and most obedient of wives; 
but she often gets her own way even when George is 
most blatantly determined to get his. This time she 
managed him so well and quickly that when we were 
changing carriages at Mullingar she was able to whis¬ 
per to me that Genevieve was to be invited to stay in 
St. John’s Wood until her plans were settled. 

“And I hope,” she said, “that it won’t be long till 
they are. I’ve told you what I think you ought to do, 
Johnny. Money or no money, Genevieve is the girl 
you ought to marry.” 

I have married her, and am uncommonly glad I 
did; but I did not do it because Lucy ordered me to. 
I did it because Genevieve herself—I can not say she 
ordered me to. That is not the way these things are 
done. Lucy did not order George to invite Genevieve 
to stay at St. John’s Wood. She so managed that 
George thought he was giving the invitation of his 
own accord. And Genevieve is far cleverer than Lucy. 

It was plainly my duty to tell the poor girl about 


FOUND MONEY 


283 


her father’s career, so that she should understand why 
we were giving up the hunt for her fortune. I had no 
excuse for putting off the unpleasant business. We 
had a compartment to ourselves all the way to Dublin. 

Genevieve took it uncommonly well. She did not 
much regret the loss of her money, though I think she 
would have liked a few more adventures before she 
finally surrendered it. Nor was she seriously upset by 
the news that her father had been a convict. She never 
liked him, and at no time, drunk or sober, had he been 
kind to her. Also she had been brought up in Ireland 
by her Aunt Josephine, which accounted for a certain 
unconventionality about her moral judgments. The 
Eloquent Josephine regarded conviction and imprison¬ 
ment as the crowning glories of a well-spent life. 

But, indeed, Genevieve neither approved nor con¬ 
demned her father, and was surprisingly little inter¬ 
ested in what I had to tell her about him or her own 
change of fortune. She was much more anxious to talk 
than to listen to me. I was very well pleased to let 
her talk as much as she liked. She gave me a most 
amusing account of her capture of Josephine, and then 
told me about her interview witl\ George. She summed 
up her opinion of him in a way that surprised me, and 
would certainly have amazed him if he had heard it. 


284 


FOUND MONEY 


‘‘He pretends to be a bear,” she said, “but in reality 
he’s a perfect lamb.” 

“That never struck me about George,” I said. 
“Now if you had said that Canon Sylvestre was a 
lamb—” 

“Canon Sylvestre,” said Genevieve, “isn’t such a 
lamb as he looks, and any one who takes him for a fool 
will get a bit of a shock in the end.” 

There I disagreed with her. Canon Sylvestre, of 
all the men I have ever met, seemed the most simple- 
minded and unworldly. 

“And your sister Lucy isn’t a fool either,” Gene¬ 
vieve went on. “She may seem soft-headed, but she 
isn’t. She’s what I call wise.” 

“Hardly wise. Crafty, perhaps.” 

I remembered that Lucy was at that moment 
“managing” George in the compartment next to ours, 
I felt that I could give her credit for a certain amount 
of cunning of rather a low kind. 

“You can call her crafty if you like,” said Gene¬ 
vieve, “but I call her wise. She’s so wise that if she 
gave me advice about anything I should take it at 
once.” 

She had been looking me straight in the face while 
she gave me her opinions about George and Canon 


FOUND MONEY 


285 


Sylvestre, but when she paid Lucy that final compli¬ 
ment she turned her head aside and looked out of the 
window. If she had been any other girl in the world 
I should have said that she was slightly embarrassed, 
but it was quite impossible to suspect Genevieve of 
any such feeling. On the other hand, I was very seri¬ 
ously embarrassed. Lucy had repeatedly given me a 
certain piece of advice which I was very well inclined 
to take. It struck me suddenly that she must have 
been giving similar advice to Genevieve, and that 
Genevieve— She had said that Lucy was wise. She 
had said that she would certainly take Lucy’s advice 
about anything. Did she mean— 

“Genevieve,” I said, in what I hoped was a tone of 
tender and affectionate respect. 

She took no notice of that. I leaned forward and 
rather timidly took her hand. She removed it at once 
and continued to stare out of the window with the 
back of her head turned to me. 

“Genevieve,” I said, “do you think—” 

She looked round at me with a mischievous smile 
on her lips. 

“Lucy says,” she said, “that it’s a great pity you 
waste your time writing novels.” 

Was ever a man, since the days of Tristram 


286 


FOUND MONEY 


Shandy's father, interrupted in such an annoying way ? 
Lucy may be wise, but Genevieve is certainly not tact¬ 
ful. I felt piqued and a little sore. 

“I suppose you think so, too," I said. 

‘That depends," said Genevieve. “If you wrote 
really good novels—" 

“Oh, mine aren’t good," I said. “I know that." 

Of course I knew in my heart that my novels are 
good, very good indeed. I have whole books full of 
reviews, cut from the most intellectual journals, show¬ 
ing that my novels are masterpieces. But there was 
no use saying that to Genevieve. She would not have 
been in the least impressed. Lucy never was, though 
I’d showed her scores of reviews. Nor was George. 
He asks for my publisher’s returns. 

“Why not write a real thriller," said Genevieve, 
“about buried treasure ? That’s the sort of book I call 
good." 

“I would if I could," I said, “but where am I to get 
the plot?" 

“Oh, if you only want a plot,” said Genevieve, 
“you might just take our own buried-treasure story. 
Be sure to put in the bit about my capturing Aunt 
Josephine. It’s the most exciting part of all. Of 
course, you’ll have to improve a little on what actually 


FOUND MONEY 


287 

happened. But that would be easy enough. You could 
make out Aunt Josephine to be a kind of queen of the 
island.” 

“She’s more or less that already,” I said. 

“Don’t be stupid,” said Genevieve. “In the story 
the treasure would be buried on a real island, and Aunt 
Josephine would be a savage.” 

“You still seem to be sticking pretty close to the 
truth about Aunt Josephine,” I said. 

“Canon Sylvestre,” Genevieve went on, “would be 
a magician who had discovered the treasure before 
we came and hidden it in the idol’s temple. General 
Hardy would be rival buccaneer and—” 

Genevieve really made a very good story out of it. 
She elaborated the details of the plot and worked up 
the more exciting scenes so well that I became deeply 
interested and forgot all about Lucy’s advice and the 
question I had nerved myself to ask. That was how it 
happened that I had no satisfactory reply to give to 
Lucy when she whispered an inquiry. We were go¬ 
ing on board the steamer at Kingstown. George was 
dealing with the luggage. Genevieve had run across 
the gangway in front of us. Lucy took me by the 
arm. 

“Johnny,” she whispered, “is it all right?” 


288 


FOUND MONEY 


I had to confess that nothing was settled, nothing 
at all, for I did not even intend to write the desert- 
island story which Genevieve had sketched out for me. 
Josephine would make a splendid savage queen, but I 
could not see the poor old canon as a subtle magician. 
Besides, I have no first-hand knowledge of tropical 
islands. 

“Do speak to her to-night, Johnny dear,” said 
Lucy. “It’s not fair to the girl to keep her in sus¬ 
pense as you’re doing.” 

I had my opportunity on board the steamer, and I 
used it. Lucy went into a cabin and stayed there, ly¬ 
ing flat on her back. It was perfectly calm, but Lucy 
is seasick the moment she sets foot on anything that 
floats. George met a friend of his, another of those 
sound business men who have built up the British Em¬ 
pire. They sat together in the smoking-room and 
drank a moderate number of whisky-and-sodas. 

Genevieve and I settled down on the sheltered side 
of the deck. It was a wonderfully warm night, and 
outside the little circle of the electric light behind us 
there was an impenetrable velvety darkness as if a soft 
black curtain had been hung all round us. At first it 
was punctured by sparkling points of light, the shore 
lights of the Kingstown front, the bright beams of the 


FOUND MONEY 


289 

lighthouse on Howth Head, the twinkling jet on the 
Burford buoy, the masthead light of the Kish. One 
by one these disappeared. Restless passengers who 
paced the deck settled down or took shelter in the 
saloons. Genevieve and I were left alone with the dark¬ 
ness around us and the rush of the water in our ears. 

Since I am writing this story, I suppose I ought to 
put down what I said to Genevieve on the deck of the 
steamer, and what reply she made to me. As a con¬ 
scientious novelist, anxious to gratify the natural curi¬ 
osity of his readers, I would do this if I could. Not 
one impassioned word would I omit. Not a blush of 
Genevieve’s would be left unrecorded. But the plain 
fact is that I can not remember what I said or how 
Genevieve replied. Indeed, if I were put on my oath 
I should be prepared to swear that I did not make any 
declaration of love or any formal proposal. I am per¬ 
fectly certain that Genevieve neither said nor did any 
of the things supposed to be usual on such occasions. 
Indeed, if Lucy had caught me on the pier of Holy- 
head—I was careful to avoid her there—I should have 
told her that even then nothing was settled. I should 
have been wrong. Everything was settled. Genevieve 
told Lucy so in the sleeping-car that night on the way 
up to London. 


290 


FOUND MONEY 


Lucy told George, and he congratulated me next 
morning after breakfast, a little, I confess, to my sur¬ 
prise. He took the news very well, much better than I 
could have hoped. 

“It’s a pity about her father, ,, he said. “There’s 
no denying it’s a most undesirable connection. But it’s 
not the girl’s fault. And she can’t be held responsible 
for her aunt either. Besides, as you say, they look 
at these things differently in Ireland. We must re¬ 
member that.” 

George’s mind is widening out. 

“And after all,” he went on, “it isn’t as if you were 
in business or in any respectable profession. These 
things don’t matter to a literary man.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


I WAS kept so busy for the next fortnight that I lost 
all interest in the fate of Wilbred’s money. Lucy 
was determined that Genevieve and I should be mar¬ 
ried as soon as possible, and there was an immense 
amount to be done. There was all the usual business 
of buying rings, interviewing parsons, and establish¬ 
ing a right to be regarded as a resident in the parish 
of St. George’s, Hanover Square. It was by George’s 
advice that we were to be married there. 

“If you’re going to do the thing at all,” he said, 
“do it properly. And in your case it’s particularly 
necessary not to let people think that there’s anything 
to be ashamed of.” 

There was the buying of clothes, for myself. I 
had nothing to do with Genevieve’s. There were cer¬ 
tain settlements, though I had little enough to settle, 
which were drawn up by Wilkinson and Parke. We 
had to choose a flat to live in, and that was not an 
easy business with a skilled and experienced housewife 
like Lucy at hand to give advice. She pointed out the 
291 


292 FOUND MONEY 

defects and inconveniences of every place we saw. I 
do not think we should ever have found a flat at all 
if we had not managed to get off one day by our¬ 
selves. We seized our chance and actually signed a 
lease for the first of the flats on that day’s list for 
inspection. 

Then came the business of furnishing. Lucy had a 
great idea of “picking up” things, instead of going to 
a common furniture dealer and giving him an order. 
We ran about London every day for hours, and if I 
had not been very firm we should have been dragged 
off to auctions in the country. 

I was so exhausted in the evenings that I could 
scarcely listen to what George said to me after dinner. 
He was still interested in Wilbred’s money. He began 
by writing to the directors of the bank from which 
the money had originally been taken. He showed me 
a copy of his letter. A few days later he showed me 
the directors’ answer. They thanked him for the in¬ 
formation he had given them but said they had no in¬ 
tention of trying to recover the money. It was an 
Irish bank, so I suppose that being robbed was part of 
the ordinary routine of business. Losses in that way 
were probably written off as petty cash expenditure. 

George was disappointed with those directors. But 


FOUND MONEY 


293 

he has a restless conscience and he did not let the mat¬ 
ter drop. He wrote to the chancellor of the Ex¬ 
chequer, giving him a full history of the money. He 
took very little by that. The chancellor handed on the 
letter to somebody in Somerset House, who replied 
that the succession duties on the estate of the late 
Ouartus Wilbred, Esquire, would be collected in the 
usual way when the will was proved. 

That worked George up a bit, and he bullied a 
member of Parliament into asking questions about 
the money. The home secretary replied that the Irish 
Free State had complete control of all mining in their 
country, and that it was their business to deal with 
any gold found under the surface of the earth. 

Anybody else in the world except George would 
have given up the business then. But he became all 
the more determined to see that what he called “jus¬ 
tice” was done. He got into touch with some poli¬ 
ticians who disliked the prime minister and wanted to 
upset the government. He and they planned a mon¬ 
ster meeting in the Albert Hall, and collected a num¬ 
ber of eminent people to make speeches at it. They 
advertised that meeting widely, and I think it would 
actually have been held if I had not quite unexpectedly 
happened on some information about the money which 


294 


FOUND MONEY 


made it clear, even to George, that it was no use going 
any further. 

I was sitting over breakfast one morning rather 
late, having had a particularly trying time the day be¬ 
fore in old furniture shops. A visitor was announced 
by my landlady, and, greatly to my surprise, Hardy 
walked in. He told me that he had come over from 
Ireland the night before, specially to see me. He ac¬ 
cepted a share of my breakfast, though he had al¬ 
ready had one meal at the “Euston Hotel. ,, After¬ 
ward he told me what his business was. 

“The Eloquent Josephine and I,” he said, “have 
plowed and harrowed and dug every square foot of 
that damned aerodrome. We sent for reinforcements, 
and latterly we had as many as two hundred and fifty 
men at work. We’ve pulled down all the buildings. 
We’ve shifted hundreds and hundreds of tons of earth. 
We’ve blasted out every rock we found to the depth 
of eight feet. Josephine’s lads got the gelignite for 
that work. You might have seen the account of it in 
the papers. ‘Robbery of Explosives from Lancashire 
Mines.’ There was a bit of a fuss at that time.” 

“I remember,” I said. 

“Well, that was Josephine, and that was what the 
stuff was wanted for. I give you my word, Famham, 


FOUND MONEY 


295 


at the present moment that camp looks as if it had 
been through ten earthquakes. Josephine and I came 
to an agreement to work on a fifty-fifty basis, and I 
must say she’s been perfectly honest. She never made 
the slightest attempt to do any private digging behind 
my back. And she knows how to make her men 
work. That woman’s tongue would raise blisters on a 
rhinoceros.” 

“I hope you found the money in the end,” I said. 

“No, we didn’t,” said Hardy. “That’s what brings 
me here this morning.” 

“I’m afraid I can’t help you. I gave you all the 
information I had, and if you can’t find the money I 
can only suppose it isn’t there.” 

“It certainly isn’t there now” said Hardy. 

I could scarcely ignore the meaning of the empha¬ 
sis he laid on the word “now.” 

“If it isn’t there now,” I said, “it never was. I 
didn’t take it.” 

“Josephine believes you did,” said Hardy. “Her 
idea is that before either she or I arrived you some¬ 
how managed to get it, and then slipped away, leaving 
us to break our backs digging for what wasn’t there.” 

“If Josephine thinks that,” I said, “I’d better keep 
out of Ireland for a while.” 


296 


FOUND MONEY 


“Well,” said Hardy, “I shouldn’t like to hear of 
your being shot, and there’s no denying that the Elo¬ 
quent Josephine is a bit upset about that money. If I 
were you I’d go somewhere a good way off and not 
leave any address. What about Brittany ?” 

“That’s where I’m going—for my honeymoon.” 

“We heard you were going to be married,” said 
Hardy. “And that reminds me—do you remember 
that old pussy-cat of a parson?” 

“Canon Sylvestre. Of course I do.” 

“Simple, childlike old saint,” said Hardy. “I ex¬ 
pect when we’re not there he preaches to the snipe on 
the bog, like St. What’s-his-name and the fishes. He 
used to be down all day watching us dig and repeating 
little texts of Scripture to encourage Josephine. When 
I told him I was coming to see you, he sent you a 
wedding present. I left it outside with my hat. Hold 
on a minute and I’ll get it.” 

He returned in a couple of minutes *with a large 
untidy parcel which looked as if it contained books. I 
laid it aside without opening it. Wedding presents 
were beginning to pall upon me a little. Besides, I 
could pretty well guess what was in the parcel. Canon 
Sylvestre had probably sent me a few books dealing 
with the nature and history of Ogam stones. 


FOUND MONEY 


297 


Hardy sat down again knd lit another pipe. 

“Hearty congrats and all that,” he said. “She is 
an uncommonly nice little girl. I don’t know where 
you’d get a nicer. And with that twenty thousand 
pounds of hers you ought to be fairly comfortable.” 

“But, good heavens. Hardy,” I said, “you don’t 
think I’ve got the money, do you?” 

“Of course you’ve got it. It certainly isn’t in 
Knockcroghery. I’ll take my oath to that. Who could 
have taken it if you didn’t? Nobody else knew where 
it was.” 

“I’ll give you my word of honor,” I said, “that I 
never touched a penny of it.” 

“I must say, Farnham,” said Hardy, “that I think 
you ought to stick to the bargain you made with me. 
You’d never miss ten per cent. And you should be a 
little grateful. I’ve come the deuce of a long way to 
warn you that the Eloquent Josephine is out after 
your scalp. Hang it all, I’m entitled to something, 
even if you’re too mean to pay the two thousand 
pounds you promised.” 

I spent an hour trying to persuade Hardy that I 
had not got the money. I failed. He left me in a 
very bad temper, convinced that I had swindled him. 

I liked Hardy from the first day I came across him 


298 


FOUND MONEY 


in the aerodrome at Knockcroghery, and I was really 
sorry that we parted on such bad terms. I sat there 
wondering what I could do to persuade him that I was 
speaking the truth. I failed to hit on any plan. He 
was convinced, as indeed I was, that Wilbred had 
buried the money in the place he described. It had 
vanished. It was only reasonable to suppose that I 
had taken it. 

After a while I thought I might as well see what 
books old Canon Sylvestre had sent me. I cut the 
string and opened the parcel. The contents of it sur¬ 
prised me. Instead of archeological books I found a 
large number of reports of religious societies. I re¬ 
membered that Canon Sylvestre had an immense quan¬ 
tity of this kind of literature on the upper shelves of 
his study, and I thought that he had accidentally 
packed up the wrong books for me. He could not pos¬ 
sibly have meant to send me out-of-date reports as a 
wedding present. I looked at them, wondering what 
I should say in thanking the old gentleman. There 
were forty-six of them altogether. Some dealt with 
missions to heathens, Jews, lepers, and various social 
outcasts of our civilization. Others were concerned 
with the care of orphans. Others with the widows of 
dead clergymen, additional curates for those who still 


FOUND MONEY 


299 

live, country air for dwellers in slums, and—I forget 
the rest of them, but they were all excellent. 

While I was still smiling over Canon Sylvestre’s 
absurd blunder, my brother-in-law walked in. He had 
something to say to me about his Albert Hall meet¬ 
ing, but when he saw all the charitable society reports 
spread out on the table he could not resist taking a look 
at them. Anything in the way of a balance sheet 
possesses a fascination for George, and of course each 
of Canon Sylvestre’s societies presented a statement 
of its accounts. I noticed as George opened the re¬ 
ports that there were markers in certain pages, and 
large blue pencil crosses in the margins. I also noticed 
that after a few minutes George became extremely 
interested. He opened one after the other of the re¬ 
ports, and a puzzled frown wrinkled his forehead. 
Then he seized a sheet of paper from my writing-table 
and began jotting down figures on it with extreme 
rapidity, copying entries from the reports until he had 
worked through the entire forty-six. 

“John,” he said, “you told me, didn’t you, that 
Canon Sylvestre shifted those Ogam stones before you 
went to Knockcroghery ?” 

“Yes, the dear old fellow didn’t mean any harm by 
it, but he certainly created a great deal of trouble.” 


300 


FOUND MONEY 


I was thinking of Hardy and his digging. If 
Canon Sylvestre had not shifted the stones Hardy 
would have been saved a lot of labor, and I should still 
be on good terms with him. 

“And he took the particular stone Wilbred de¬ 
scribed to you?” said George. 

“I saw it myself,” I said. “It was in the middle 
of his garden.” 

“I suppose that Sylvestre is not a rich man?” 

“As poor as a church mouse,” I said. “That kind 
of simple-minded saint is always poor.” 

“Then how do you account for this ?” said George. 

He handed me one of the reports, open at the list 
of subscribers. There was a blue pencil mark near the 
top of the page. I read: “Reverend Canon Sylvestre, 
five hundred pounds.” 

“And this ?” said George. 

I read again. A missionary society of which I 
had never heard acknowledged the receipt of one 
thousand pounds from the Reverend Canon Sylvestre. 
George passed to me report after report. The amount 
of the donations varied, but they were all large, and 
they were all given in 1916, the year the aerodrome 
was established in Knockcroghery, when Canon Syl¬ 
vestre moved the stones. 


FOUND MONEY 


301 


“The total,” said George, glancing at the paper on 
which he had been writing, “comes to just twenty 
thousand pounds.” 

“Well,” I said, “the old gentleman seems to have 
been strictly honest. That’s one comfort. He has ac¬ 
counted for every penny of the money. Twenty thou¬ 
sand is what Wilbred said there was.” 

“I dare say,” said George, “that it’s the best thing 
that could have happened to that money.” 

George is a very religious man. Many people 
would have grudged those societies their windfall. 

“Anyhow,” said George, “it’s no use trying to get 
it back now. Even if the bank directors wanted to 
they couldn’t, and I think, on the whole, the best thing 
is for us to keep quiet about this discovery of ours. 
We should do no good by talking about it.” 

“I should like,” I said, “to tell Hardy. He thinks 
I’ve got the money, and I’d be glad to convince him 
that I haven’t.” 

“Better not,” said George. “He would be sure to 
talk.” 

I saw in a moment that George was right. Hardy 
would be certain to speak about the affair to some¬ 
body, and if the Eloquent Josephine heard of it—she 
would scarcely be satisfied with merely shooting 


302 


FOUND MONEY 


Canon Sylvestre, and I should hate to think of the 
old man being tortured. It is, I believe, quite possible 
to be a saint without becoming a martyr, too. 

I did, however, tell Genevieve, while we were 
spending the last week of our honeymoon at St. Jacut. 
George can not blame me for that, for I found out 
afterward that he told Lucy. 

THE END 







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